


Memories Circle (Like Birds of Prey)

by flash0flight



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Stevebuckybigbang2014, Torture, Winter Soldier!Steve, assumed death, brainwashing/reprogramming, extreme injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:58:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2583860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flash0flight/pseuds/flash0flight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything seems to be going right, Steve's fighting with his Commandos, they've saving lives-- until Steve falls from a train, is taken prisoner, and turned into the Winter Soldier. Meanwhile, Bucky takes up Steve's mantle as Captain America, and thanks to Zola's experiments, he gets dropped into a whole new time, only to cross paths with a Steve who doesn't know who he is anymore.</p><p>Essentially, the events of CA:TFA, mild mentioning of Avengers, and CA:TWS but with Steve as the Winter Soldier and Bucky as Captain America</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Go Back In Time

**Author's Note:**

> Wow this has been an INSANE journey, and so many times I never thought I'd get it done on time. But here it is, my first big bang!  
> Thanks to [Jackie for beta-ing](http://archiveofourown.org/users/girl0nfire)
> 
> The wonderful accompanying art can be found [here](http://neurovicky.tumblr.com/post/102061442139/my-art-for-the-steve-bucky-bigbang-ill)
> 
> All titles from the Anberlin song Birds of Prey

Birthdays were never really great for Steve, and he’d gotten used to that long before they started to improve. When Bucky turned up in his life, though, and he figured out just how much Steve played down his birthday, he went to ridiculous lengths to change it.

It’s birthday number sixteen now, and Bucky’d turned up that morning with a little present in hand - new pencils for his art, and god knows how he afforded that - and he’d woken Steve up before he even knew what was going on.

And just like every other year since they met, Bucky’d gone out of his way to try and make Steve believe that it wasn’t the Fourth, that his birthday was more important.

Every year, he gets a little closer to believing it, too.

This year, though, something feels different. Sure, they rush around the city like they always do, seeing everything and meeting everyone, having lunch at their favourite diner that always makes Steve a free milkshake because it’s his birthday, walking over the waterfront and watching all the families enjoying the view they don’t usually have time for. This year, though, Bucky seems a little nervous, a little rushed, and every time Steve asks he just insists he’s okay.

Something’s off, though, and by the end of the night, Steve can’t help but feel as though he’s done something wrong. Even when they go to the same place they always go - Bucky’s parents have an apartment in a good building, and they can get up onto the roof, the view of the fireworks aren’t too bad - he makes a point of curling in on himself, giving Bucky enough space because it has to be something he did, right?

“Steve—“

Bucky says his name like it’s sacred, and Steve can’t keep himself from looking up at him, getting lost for a second in the way the colours from the fireworks flicker over his face, his eyes shining in the lights, and— god, he’s beautiful, and Steve would kill to be able to say that out loud, but he can’t— he can’t risk losing Bucky like that—

“Happy birthday, Steve—“

Before he knows it, Bucky’s leaning in and he’s kissing him like nothing else matters, and everything just falls away, time just stops while Steve tries to wrap his head around this, tries to comprehend that Bucky is kissing him—

And he breaks away all too soon, biting his lip and suddenly looking even more nervous than he had before and Steve has to bite back a whine of don’t before he makes a fool of himself.

“Sorry— sorry, I couldn’t help— you look really great here with the— I mean, you always—“

Bucky’s babbling and Steve can’t help it, he can’t stop himself because what the hell, it’s my birthday, and he leans in to kiss him again, letting everything disappear around him again, leaning in a little closer and before he knows it Bucky’s holding him, safe and warm and very real and it’s everything Steve’s been dreaming— no, it’s _better_ —

“Wanted to do that since you turned fourteen, y’know—“

Steve would laugh, but he has to kiss Bucky again first, and now that he can he does, letting Bucky reel him in closer and he can’t even hear the fireworks over the thudding of his own heart in his ears, and he’s so sure Bucky can hear it too but he doesn’t think he really cares.

“You— hey—“

Somehow, Steve was always the logical one, always, and today is no different as he pulls back a little, meeting Bucky’s eyes. And for all he’s wanted this for so long now, there’s still a little voice in the back of his mind that’s telling him to wait.

“You— you know we can’t— we have to be—“

“Shh— we will be, okay? We can— no one ever has to know, I just— I can’t keep pretending you’re not everything to me, Steve.“

Bucky smiles, and somehow, that makes all of the risk and the danger and the secret they’re going to have to keep worth it.

It always will be worth it.

—

As nice as it is to go out together, wander through the park together or go to Coney Island for the tenth time, it’s nice to be home. Where they can be themselves, where they can get tangled up in each other on the threadbare couch, where Steve can putter around the kitchen in his undershirt and shorts, with one of Bucky’s three-sizes-too-big sweaters grudgingly shrugged on to keep him warm, making dinner for the two of them to share.

He doesn’t have to start when Bucky comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around Steve’s waist as he stands at the stove, pretending to peer over the top of his head to check on the soup contentedly simmering in the pot. Steve knows better, though, knows the careful way Bucky’s fingers are stroking over the hips, knows the gentle assurance in the kiss Bucky presses to his temple, the way he presses so solidly against Steve’s back.

It’s all to make up for spending a day out. They usually do, over summer, considering Steve knows he’s not always so healthy throughout the year. Whatever good days they can get, they take, and they make the most of it, rediscovering the city they grew up in together. But this— this is better than any of that. Knowing that at home they can be themselves, they can be who they are without having to worry?

Steve loves having that with Bucky more than anything. He can’t quite imagine having things any other way.

—

Bucky’d thought he’d be prepared for a job in a factory. Hell, he’s been chasing around three little sisters his whole life, a factory should be a breeze, right?

Okay, maybe not.

Still, it means they can pay rent, and it gives Steve a chance to keep working on his art, doing comic strips for newspapers and working on a portfolio he still doesn’t believe is going to get him anywhere. Like his art isn’t amazing.

Besides, after his twelve hour shifts, Bucky gets to come home to Steve, to the little home they never thought they’d be able to have to begin with, and he wouldn’t give that up for anything.

Especially when he pushes the door open and Steve’s already bustling around the kitchen making dinner.

“You better wash your hands before you even think of coming near this kitchen, Barnes.”

Bucky’s always struck by just how like his mother Steve can be sometimes.

And it only gets stronger by the second, apparently. Grinning to himself, Bucky shrugs his coat off and hangs it on the hook by the door before wiping his hands on his pants a few times and holding them up.

“Look, all clean—“

Steve raises an eyebrow at him and Bucky can’t help but laugh, ducking into the kitchen to plant a kiss on Steve’s cheek before stepping out again. Steve’s right, factory work is filthy, and he needs to get the layer of grime off his hands and face before dinner.

Besides, it’s not like they don’t have plenty of time to spare.

—

It always breaks Steve’s heart a little when he goes home to see his mom, knowing she’s a little sicker every time, knowing she’s still smiling for him, knowing she puts on a brave face so he doesn’t have to worry.

Like he’s not going to anyway.

And she says it again and again, that everything’s perfectly fine, that all Steve has to worry about is keeping himself healthy and happy, and keeping an eye on that silly “roommate” of his. As though she doesn’t know the truth— as though she hasn’t all along.

And Sarah’s never minded, not for a moment. Sure she used to be a little— strict, maybe, when Steve and Bucky were in school and he would stay over under the guise of working on a paper or wanting to keep an eye on Steve after a rough day with his asthma, but she cares for him, she knows Bucky has Steve’s best interests at heart, just like she does.

Besides, nowadays she has more to worry about whether or not Steve’s dating anyone. They both do, really, though Steve’s sure he does enough worrying for the both of them.

They’ve been trying to ward this off for a while, too, and at first it seemed as though it was working. Sarah was doing okay, maybe a little on the weaker side, and she had a few bad days sometimes, but she was up on her feet, she was healthy.

Now, though, Steve’s lucky if he even gets to see her on her feet. She insists she’s fine, of course, clutching onto Steve’s hand like her life depends on it and telling him to make sure he locks up for her on the way out, like she’s reminded him every day since he was ten years old and she was working early shifts down at the hospital where she got sick. Like it never happened, like everything’s normal.

But as Steve closes the front door behind him, he can hear the hacking cough she’s probably been doing her best to hold back for a half hour, and he can’t help but hang his head a little lower than usual, trying not to think too hard about how little time his mother’s got left.

—

“I’m fine, Buck.”

Steve’s hoping if he says it enough times, Bucky will believe it. Better yet, he’ll believe it himself. Like there won’t be a gaping hole in the middle of his chest where his mother used to be, the space that used to fill with warm, comforting light whenever she said his name, whenever she smiled, whenever she gave him a hug or a kiss on the forehead.

Maybe if Steve says it enough, it’ll come true, and this won’t hurt anymore.

Bucky’s not fooled, though, settling down on the beat-up couch beside Steve, reaching for his hand like he has a hundred other times. Steve doesn’t stop him; all he can do is watch as Bucky tangles their fingers together, filling in the spaces between Steve’s own like he belongs there.

And he does. He always has.

“You don’t have to be, Steve. I’m here. I’m with you, till the end of the line.”

The same thing Bucky always said when they were kids, when he was peeling Steve off another back-alley floor, picking him up out of the dirt and wiping the blood off his nose. The same thing he said every year on the anniversary of his father’s death, sitting with him and going through old photos of the man who died not long after Steve had even been born. The same thing he said the first time he told Steve he loved him.

And it’s been a while since Steve simply crawled up into Bucky’s lap, shrugging off his jacket and abandoning it on the couch where he’d been sitting moments beforehand— but he can’t help it. Can’t help but need to seek out the warmth Bucky has, can’t help but be desperate to get closer to him, pressing his face against Bucky’s shoulder and letting his tears soak silently into Bucky’s shirt, trying to pretend they’re not there.

Steve’s always been able to be himself here, in their shoebox apartment, with Bucky by his side. Even when that means being himself means being lost, being distraught and broken, grieving for the mother who gave Steve everything, even when it seemed like they had nothing. The mother who died clasping onto Steve’s hand, smiling and telling him that he’s always been her greatest accomplishment, that she’ll always be happy knowing she had such a wonderful son.

—

As long as Steve’s known Bucky, he’s known the three Barnes girls. Bucky’s baby sisters, the three girls he adores more than anything in the world, that he would do anything for.

And now, he has to leave them behind, leave his mom and dad behind. He has to leave Steve behind.

He got his orders a few days back, and they’d visited Bucky’s family that day, to tell them the news. Becca, the oldest after Bucky, she took it best— she’d always been the one who grew up years before she should have, helping Buckyand their mother with their baby twin sisters when the two came along. The twins had cried, though, tears streaming down their cheeks before Bucky had even finished explaining that he’d been drafted.

Steve knows Bucky had thought about it before, that he’d seen the enlistment offices and the posters up all over the city. But he’d never actually leave, never find it in himself to run off to war and leave his whole family behind. Not when they’ve always meant so much to him. Not when he knows how much they need him.

About an hour after they’d explained, when Bucky and his mother had sat aside to sort everything out, Becca’s perched herself beside Steve, silent for a few minutes before she’d said the only thing that revealed how scared she was.

“What’re we gonna do, Steve? If he doesn’t come home?”

Becca’s always been the one who knew what was going on, knew what Steve and Bucky are for each other, even if neither of them have ever explained. Even if they haven’t been able to tell anyone, in fear of something being let slip, Becca always knew. She’s always been able to read Steve, always known just how much Steve loved her brother. Which is why Steve hadn’t had the heart to tell her that he’s been asking himself the same thing ever since Bucky got the news.

Even now, even when they’re in their home, curled up together against the headboard of their bed, even as Steve absently shades his latest sketch, he still can’t get that thought out of his mind. Can’t stop asking himself; what if? What if he doesn’t?

“Steve—“

Bucky always says his name like it’s a prayer, always touches him so gently, with such care as though Steve is something precious, something to be protected. Not because Bucky thinks he can’t do it himself— Bucky knows better than to think like that. But because he believes he should do so anyway.

So when he stills Steve’s hands with his own, Steve doesn’t pull away, doesn’t flinch or try and continue. He lets Bucky take the pencil from his hand, lets their fingers tangle together on the page Steve’s been unenthusiastically working on. Because there’s no telling how many more moments like this they’re going to have.

“I’ll come home. I swear it.”

“Don’t—“

The word leaves Steve in a sort of squeak before he can help it, and he feels Bucky’s grip tighten on his hands.

“I will, c’mon. It’s just training—“

“And then what, Buck? Then where are they gonna send you?”

Steve knows he shouldn’t be saying it, he shouldn’t be saying any of this, not when he knows this wasn’t Bucky’s choice. Not when he knows, if he had the option, Bucky would be staying right here with him.

But he doesn’t. None of them do. Bucky doesn’t have a choice; he has to go. Just like Steve doesn’t have the choice to follow in his father’s footsteps, to be a soldier like his father was. Because he can’t even enlist, not in his condition. He’s tried.

“It doesn’t matter, hey— It doesn’t matter, Steve. I’ll still come home.”

Steve wants to believe it. More than anything, he wants to believe it. Here, in their home, the place where they can be who they are, the place where absolutely everything is theirs, including each other, he wants to believe it.

And maybe he has to. Maybe Steve needs to believe it. Because Bucky— he’s all Steve has left, now. He’s the only one left that knows Steve to his very core, and still wants him. The only one who sees Steve, and still stays.

“Okay—“

Reaching out carefully, Steve traces over Bucky’s cheek, slow gentle strokes as though he’s sure something’s going to steal Bucky away from him.

“I— I believe you, Bucky.”

Maybe that was what Bucky needed to hear, too. Because something changes in his eyes, something turning that touch brighter, that bit more hopeful. As though somehow, if Steve believes it, Bucky believes it, too.

They’ve always been like that though, really. They’ve always drawn on each other, built each other up, pulled each other through the worst of the worst. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll be enough for him to stay safe. For him to come home.

—

Steve wishes he could say he’s lost track of how much time has passed since Bucky left for his training, but he knows the exact number of weeks, days, and hours, down to the minute when Bucky walks through the door in his uniform, looking beaten and worn and changed in some way, but he’s still Bucky. He’s still Steve’s Bucky.

Which is why Steve all but drops his sketchbook and climbs over the back of the couch, practically launching himself at Bucky and holding on for dear life. And he doesn’t even doubt for a moment that Bucky will catch him, that he’ll drop his bags and hold Steve like his life depends on it, like he always has.

And he does. Of course he does. And if Steve has his way, he’s never gonna let go. Neither of them are.

—

Steve can’t say he’s surprised when Bucky appears out of no where, saving his ass for the hundredth time and scaring this guy away before he can try and break Steve’s nose. And he wants to be fine, he wants to handle it like he always does, stand up tall and pretend his face isn’t throbbing, pretend he didn’t just get knocked down more than a few times, but Bucky sees through him. Bucky always sees through him.

“Sometimes I think you like getting punched.”

It sounds like a joke, sure, but Steve can hear the concern, he can feel it in Bucky’s hand on his shoulder. Rubbing at his face, Steve looks up at him for the first time since he arrived, and his heart sinks. Bucky’s in uniform, which only means—

“You got your orders?”

It comes out like more of a squeak to Steve’s ears because saying it out loud hurts, and he’s being absurd, he knows he is. He’s known ever since Bucky got his draft notice that this was coming. They both have.

“Yeah— 107th. Ship out first thing in the morning.”

Steve has to stop himself from saying that tomorrow morning is way too soon.

Instead, he says the stupidest thing he could say right now.

“I should be going—”

_Instead of you._

“Hey, c’mon—“

They can’t spare much time, not out here, but Bucky takes the risk anyway, pulling Steve closer and wrapping his arms around him, holding him close like he always does when Steve’s not doing so great, when he needs a reminder that things are going to be okay, even if he doesn’t really feel like they are.

“Let’s go, yeah? I think— we should go home.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

—

It’s nearly two in the morning, and they’re still not sleeping. Steve’s not sure he can, not when he knows waking up just means Bucky’s going to have to leave.

For a second, they’d considered heading to the exhibition in the city, seeing what that Stark guy has put together, but— they couldn’t do it. Not when they knew it would mean— pretending, acting like they’re just buddies, spending their last night lying instead of being true to themselves, and to each other, in their home.

So, they did just that. They headed home, grabbed a few sandwiches at the Italian deli on the corner on their way - because it was Bucky’s favourite and it was the first thing they’d eaten when they’d moved into their apartment - and settled down for the night. Just— staying together, for as long as they can. Curling up on the couch together so Steve can sketch him over and over, sketch his face, his hands, his eyes.

Like he hasn’t already filled so many books with sketches of Bucky.

More than anything, they hadn’t let each other go, and now, Steve’s glad for that. Glad they’ve landed in bed together like they always do, skin on skin, pressed so close together they might as well be melded together. Clinging so tight Steve’s not sure either of them are going to be able to let go, come morning.

Bucky mumbles into Steve’s hair that he loves him for the hundredth time tonight, and Steve locks it away with the rest of them. Because until Bucky comes home again, if he even does, Steve’s going to need every single memory of every single “I love you” they have.

—

So many of the other guys shipping out are saying goodbye to their girls, waving and kissing them just once more, which then becomes two more, three more, not wanting to let each other go, and Bucky can’t help but feel an ache in his chest. And it’s pointless, he knows it is, considering there’s no way he and Steve could say goodbye like that, not here.

But there’s no way they wouldn’t want to, if Steve had come to see him off, and that’s something they just can’t risk. Not when Bucky knows exactly how much trouble it would cause for Steve.

Still, he can’t say it wouldn’t be nice to see him just one last time, to hold him, to kiss him just once more—

Repressing a sigh, Bucky turns away from the numerous couples to see another guy standing on his own not far off, watching the other couples with a sort of sadness in his eyes that is all too familiar to Bucky.

He catches Bucky’s eye, just for a moment, and Bucky nods briefly, if only to let him know that he understands. And maybe it’ll help him.

It doesn’t help Bucky, though. Not really.

—

The apartment is so big without Bucky there.

Pushing his hands into his pockets, Steve stares around blankly, his heart sinking further with every second. Bucky shipped off two hours ago, and Steve hadn’t even been there. They couldn’t risk it, not when Steve was certain he’d never be able to keep himself composed. Not when they both know they wouldn’t be able to resist one more hug, one more kiss. And that’s one thing they just couldn’t risk.

Still, Steve wishes he’d gone anyway. It would’ve been worth it, to see Bucky off.

Steve snags his keys off the table by the front door and shrugs his jacket on, turning his back on the cold, empty apartment that’s been home to both of them for so long now. He promised Mrs. Barnes he would drop by and help her with the girls, and there’s an exhibit going on in town that Steve might take a look at. Really, if he’s quite honest with himself, Steve needs to get out of this apartment. Just for a little while. Just for long enough to wrap his head around the idea that he’s going to have to get used to being in that place on his own, that Bucky’s just not there anymore, after being there for so long.

Like he could ever get used to that.

—

Erskine has to be the first person since Steve met Bucky that hasn’t looked at him like he’s a waste of the space he takes up. And as much as he aches, as much as he still wishes Bucky could’ve just stayed home, Steve can’t help but feel a rush as the doctor watches him carefully, almost straight right through him, a small smile curling the corners of his lips. One that tells Steve there’s some sort of secret here, he’s just not quite in on it yet.

“I can offer you a chance. Only a chance.”

Erskine’s voice is light, honest, but Steve can’t help but hang on every word, following him out of the examination area. Because his life has been built on chance, on opportunities he always grasped when he could because they just never came by often enough. And He’s not about to let this one slip through his fingers.

“I’ll take it.”

Right now, Steve will take anything. Especially something that gets a nice, clear 1A stamped onto his enlistment form. Something that gets him one step closer to fighting the way he knows he should.

And something that gets him one step closer to finding Bucky.

—

Training is hard, harder than Steve could have imagined, but he pushes through. Camp Lehigh becomes home to him; and it practically is now, anyway. There’s nothing left for him back in New York, not without Bucky.

The other men in the program, they’re soldiers. Strong and big, speeding through their training faster than Steve could hope. But they’re— grunts, essentially, soldiers who follow orders well enough, but bullies. Especially one in particular who seems to have it out for Steve, pushing him that little further back with every training exercise they’re made to go through.

He’s gonna do this, though. Steve swore to himself he would do his best, and his best has to be enough, this time.

—

The grenade bounces into the centre of the group, and Steve doesn’t even see the other men scatter. All he can think of is protect them as he launches at it, curling his small frame over the top of it and yelling at the others to move, to get back to safety, waiting for the explosion and hoping he’s not too small to save someone, at least.

But the explosion never comes, silence falling over him, and when Steve chances a glance up at the men around him he sees Erskine smiling, just a little satisfied. Colonel Philips doesn’t look convinced, but something seems to have changed in the way he looks at Steve.

“…Is this a test?”

Steve can’t help but ask, just as he had when Erskine first met him, first asked him why he wanted to join to begin with, and the doctor’s smile grows a little wider as Philips mumbles something to him and heads off.

And Steve’s still not sure what’s going on, but— he hopes it’s good. He feels as though it is, and maybe he’s right.

—

Erskine’s still the only person who’s looked at Steve and seen more than a runt, since Bucky shipped out.And right now, on the eve of the experiment they’ve been building towards, that means more to Steve than anything. Hearing the man’s story, hearing just what this means to him, that means more to Steve than he can ever explain.

“Promise me one thing; that you will not be the perfect soldier, but a good man.”

Of all the things Erskine could ask for, that one is probably the easiest. And it’s the one thing Steve is determined to do, more than he ever has been.

 


	2. Thoughts Dance on Stage

The whole procedure took forever and no time at all, before Steve knows it the capsule is cracking open around him, and there’s steam swirling around him as he sucks in a deep breath— and he can do that now without choking or coughing, without feeling like his lungs just won’t expand enough and that in itself is amazing.

Bucky would be so happy to see him healthy for once.

He steps out of the capsule carefully into the waiting hands of Erskine and Stark, and Peggy seems utterly awed, just like everyone does, and he vaguely notices that he’s— looking down at everyone now, physically, and isn’t that weird after years of peering up at everyone, and— everything looks different, the colours and brighter, everything is sharper, it’s all so— real, and Steve can’t quite grasp it.

Really, he’s still trying to wrap his hand around it when an explosion sounds overhead, what the hell—

Before Steve can wrap his head around that, shots ring out and Erskine falls to the ground barely breathing, and a man is fleeing the scene with the last tube of the serum, but all Steve can focus on is Erskine, watching the life bleed out of his eyes as he gestures towards Steve’s heart. And he doesn’t need to say it, because Steve will never, ever forget.

And the first thing he’s gonna do to stay good, to do the right thing, is catch the bastard that did this.

—

_And you— you are not enough._

Philips’ words echo through Steve’s mind as he tugs this stupid cowl on, and he can’t believe he’s doing this, dancing around on the stage to sell bonds when he should be fighting just like every other able-bodied man already is.

Senator Brandt insists this is the fastest way for him to get in, though, and with his only other avenue being hiding away in a lab while doctors run tests on him, he’d rather at least try and get where he’s been fighting to reach for so long now.

Maybe it’ll be worth it. At least he’s gonna be helping, right?

At least, that’s what Steve tells himself as he stumbles out on stage, peering awkwardly at the notes on the back of his star-spangled shield and he hopes to god that the country gets behind this Captain America deal, because it’s about his only hope of making a difference right now.

—

By the time Steve lands in Italy, the act is tired. But the soldiers here haven’t seen girls all dressed up like this in a while, apparently, so they do their job, giving the boys something to focus on that doesn’t include killing people.

Steve, on the other hand, gives them something to laugh at, something that doesn’t quite fit, and suddenly he’s five-foot tall again and all the bullies in the schoolyard are throwing rotten food at him, like he’s doing something wrong here.

And as he slinks offstage, passing the girls as they head out to calm the soldiers down, he hates that he agrees with them. Because he does, he really does. He should be fighting with them, not prancing around in tights.

One of the girls gives him a sympathetic smile as she passes him, but he hardly notices. All he can really think about is how disappointed he is in himself.

—

Steve’s not sure if Peggy’s trying to make him feel better or worse, but something definitely hits home when she tells him he was meant for more than this. Because it doesn’t matter what he was meant for in the first place; Erskine gave him a chance, and the rest of them won’t even let him take it.

Some sort of ruckus starts up, men being carried in on stretchers for treatment from god knows what, and Steve can’t help but think—

“They look like they’ve been through hell.”

“These men more than most. Schmidt sent out a force, to Azzano. Two-hundred men went up against him. Less than fifty returned. Your audience contained what was left of the 107th, the rest were killed or captured—“

“The 107th?”

Oh, no. No.

—

Philips’ apology rings in Steve’s mind as he listens to the information Peggy’s giving him about Schmidt’s security, but the more she talks the more Steve sees holes he can take advantage of. Ways to get inside, to find Bucky and take him back to somewhere safe.

He’s lucky he’s even here on a plane, lucky Stark’s nuts enough to fly him out here and that he’s not actually walking there on his own.

Before he knows it they’re taking fire, and they’re not at the drop zone yet but Steve can’t risk the plane going down and Stark and Peggy going down with it. Besides, he’s got the chute, and he has a shield, and the serum. And one hell of a stubborn personality.

“Once I’m clear you two get the hell out of here—“

“You can’t give me orders!”

Peggy sounds worried— and maybe she should, but Steve doesn't have time to figure it out. Instead, he grins at her, gripping the edges of the hatch.

“The hell I can’t, I’m a Captain.”

And before she can say another word, or talk himself out of it, he jumps.

—

Bucky's gotta be here somewhere, he has to. And Steve knows he’s not leaving without him, not a chance in hell. Sure, he’s gotten these other soldiers out - and by the sounds of it, they’re raising hell - but he came here to save Bucky, and that’s what he’s going to do.

There hallways are empty, nothing that could give him anything, until—

A man, short, stocky, glasses on his face, and Steve has to skate over the fact that not so long ago he wouldn’t even be able to see what colour his coat was properly let alone that much detail, because if this man is running away, there must be something to run away from.

Steve wastes no time, jogging down the hall, and on the way he sees a map that he spares a moment to commit to memory as best he can before it’s gone, and he tucks it away for later. There’s more important things to worry about right now.

The room is cold the moment he steps inside, and he can tell it’s a lab of some form, but none of that matters, because strapped to a goddamn slab is—

“Bucky—“

Steve doesn’t remember crossing the room, but the next thing he knows he’s there, tearing the straps off the table and gripping Bucky’s shoulders, trying not to focus on the fact that the first time he can see Bucky the way he really is, and he looks like he’d rather be dead.

But he finally breaks out of the routine of repeating his name and serial number and looks up at Steve, his eyes clearing.

“Steve— Steve?”

Thank god—

Steve helps him off the slab, holding him steady, holding him close for the first time in way too long—

“I thought you were dead—“

“I thought you were smaller—“

Typical. 

Relief bubbles out as laughter as Bucky straightens up, and he almost doesn’t make it but Steve holds him steady like Bucky’d done for him so many times before and it’s almost familiar, almost like home being able to hold him again, being able to hear his voice, to see him again.

Now all that matters is getting him out alive. Getting them both out alive.

—

Bucky’s not convinced he’s not hallucinating. He’s not going to lie, it wouldn’t be the first time they stuck him with who knows what drug and he hallucinated Steve’s face just in an effort to keep himself sane. Not like this, though. Not tall and strong and healthy, running like a damn athlete and fighting like a soldier.

He always was, though, even if his body never really got the message.

Everything’s still a little foggy, but Steve’s grip on his arm keeps him centred, keeps him focused on this, on now, and the only question he really has is—

“What happened to you?”

“I joined the Army.”

That punk—

Bucky manages a small smile, even if he’s not sure it looks like one, it’s just— familiar, everything about Steve is familiar, even like this, even when he’s suddenly six-foot and strong, it’s like a miracle.

Though, if it was, he wouldn’t be here, and Bucky wouldn’t feel so miserable for being so glad he is.

That can come later, though. When Steve stops moving like their lives depend on it.

—

“Would you look at that, Captain America gets his own tent and everything.”

Steve’s not sure he’s ever been so happy to hear Bucky’s voice. And he doesn’t even care that he’s still in his damn costume underneath his fatigues, he doesn’t care that Bucky probably needs a lot of sleep and recovery time, because he’s standing right there, staring at him like he always has. Like Steve is the only thing in the world that matters.

It takes a whole two and a half strides to cross his small tent, arms coming up to wrap around Bucky a little tighter than he should but Steve can’t help it, not when it’s been so long since they’ve been together. Not when Steve found him strapped to a goddamn slab mumbling his serial number, completely oblivious to everything after god only knows what—

“Gotta have some kind of perks, right?”

Steve aims for a joke, but he knows it falls short. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t get that image out of his head, and before he knows it he’s drawing Bucky even closer, and he’s not really sure he’s going to be able to let go.

“You— got checked, yeah? Nurses cleared you? You’re okay?”

“Steve— Shh—“

It’s a little different now, but Bucky still manages it, pulling a little so Steve can rest his head on Bucky’s shoulder, just like he always used to before, and it’s nice, to feel as though not everything’s changing. Some things are still the way they’ve always been.

“I’m fine, I just— can’t believe you’re here, and you’re—“

Bucky sounds a little breathless, taking his turn to pull Steve closer, and Steve can’t help but smile, feeling himself settle against Bucky, figuring out how this new body fits with his— and it still does. No matter how different he is now, Steve still fits right here, in Bucky’s arms.

“M’real, I promise— I’m here and I’m safe and I’m—“

Leaning back, Steve cups Bucky’s face in his hands, taking a moment to marvel at— everything, at the fact that they’re both here, they’re both— safe and alive and before Steve knows it he’s kissing him and it feels as exactly amazing as it’s always felt and if there’s anything in the world that could melt away every fear and doubt and worry Steve has, it’s this single moment.

“I love you, Bucky.”

The words still come as easy as ever, too, and that’s all they really need.

“I love you, too, Steve. Now, do I get to see this uniform or what—“

Bucky’s joke hits home a little better than Steve’s did, and he can’t help but chuckle as he leans in for another kiss.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

—

It's nice to watch his new team letting loose and reminding themselves that they’re still here, still alive, and they’re certainly making the most of it, especially now that Steve’s agreed to open a tab. it’s the least he can do really, considering what they’ve just seen. What they’ve all been through. What Steve’s asking them to go through again.

What they’ve all agreed to go through again.

It’s men like them that make Steve proud he can finally serve, do his part just like they already have.

Settling on a stool at the bar, Steve glances at Bucky, offering him a small smile. Bucky’s known that this was going to be Steve’s plan ever since they got back to camp. Steve didn’t even have to say anything for him to figure it out.

Just like Steve didn’t even have to ask to know Bucky was going to come with him, no matter how much Steve wants to tell him he doesn’t have to.

“You’re keeping the uniform, right?”

Like Steve could ever get rid of it now, even if he wanted to. Bucky made that more than clear.

“You know what—“

They both turn at the same time, facing the poster on the wall behind them for the tour of now-cancelled Captain America shows, and Steve has to remind himself not to laugh at the picture, his goofy grin and the wings protruding from the cowl on his head.

“It’s kinda growing on me.”

They both share a small smile at that, the rest of the world just falling away for a second, and it’s almost as though they’re back home, in their own little world like they always were, like nothing else matters but that they can still smile together.

And somehow, they can. And that’s enough.

—

Steve swears up and down he only went through basic training before Project Rebirth, but Bucky thinks they turned him into a damn secret agent or something, because he’s never seen a man with basic training move like this. He’s so much faster, and stronger and— he’s healthy, he can go for miles without stopping, without even breaking a sweat, and they all know the only reason he does stop is for the team.

And somehow, he’s still the same dumb little kid Bucky’s been in love with since he was fifteen. He’s still awkward, still sits in the corner and laughs at everyone’s jokes rather than thinking he can join in. He still makes a point of being polite to just about everyone.

And, even with them marching out to fight a war Bucky wanted so much to protect Steve from, he still manages to smile, and Bucky’s not always sure how. Not when he feels as though he’s utterly screwed up the one thing he thought he could manage to do. Keep Steve’s dumb ass safe.

He doesn’t seem to need that anymore, though. And as happy as Bucky is about that— he can’t help but be a little lost. Because if Steve doesn’t need Bucky to keep him safe anymore, what use is he?

He’s just lucky as hell he has Steve to remind him every single day that maybe, he’s worth more than that. Maybe.

—

They’re wiping Hydra facilities off the map faster than anyone had expected them to work, and Steve can’t help but be proud of just how well the Commandos work together. Not that he ever expected otherwise; there’s something about fighting together, risking your lives together, fighting for your own freedom together that keeps these men together, keeps them working so well in sync, keeps them fighting together.

And Steve’s not going to lie, it helps, having Bucky out there. Not only because Steve can keep him safe if they’re on the field together, but— there’s just something about the way they work, the way they’ve always worked together that makes this whole war one little bit easier.

Maybe it’s the fact that everyone else sees Captain America, but Bucky still sees Steve as that skinny kid he peeled off so many back-alley floors in Brooklyn. The kid who was always too stubborn to keep himself out of a fight.

The rest of the team— Steve’s sure they know, they have to, no matter how hard he and Bucky try to keep things normal, they’re probably a little more obvious than they seem. They don’t seem to mind, though, when Bucky sneaks into Steve’s tent after they all clear their medical checks. They don’t say anything when one of them catches sight of Steve’s mussed hair in the morning, or their identical, sappy grins after spending a night together.

They just— they don’t seem to care in the slightest, and after being together for so long, after being so careful together for so long, it’s nice. Knowing they can be themselves, to a degree.

In this sort of world, in the middle of this war, Steve wouldn’t have it any other way.

—

“This is a bad idea, Steve.”

They spend more and more time tangled in each other these days, and it’s when they’re most honest with each other, Steve knows. Bucky wouldn’t point this out any other time, not in the strategy meetings or the planning, no where that would ever give anyone else reason to doubt him.

Here, though— Steve’s not Captain America. He’s just Steve, and Bucky’s the one person who can almost always get through to him.

“It’s not that bad, c’mon—“

Bucky raises an eyebrow, and Steve has to resist the urge to chew on his lip, knowing it’ll be a dead giveaway. Like Bucky can’t read him like a damn book, anyway. Like he hasn’t always been able to do just that.

Steve knows this assault on the train is risky, he knows they’re going to have time it perfectly, they’re going to have to hope they can stand against whatever firepower they’ve got stored on the train, he knows how dangerous it is.

But it needs to be done. They need Zola, whether they like it or not. Catching Zola puts them one step closer to catching Schmidt.

“Look, Bucky— if you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to—“

“Like I’m gonna let you go out there on your own, picking a fight? Please—“

Steve’s lips curl in a small smile as he presses a kiss to Bucky’s forehead. He can’t really say he’s surprised; Bucky’s always been there right beside him, even if he thinks Steve’s getting himself into a fight he could’ve avoided.

He’s still there, every single time.

“Listen— I know it’s a risk, but we can handle this.”

“M’gonna drive you insane in the afterlife if you’re wrong, y’know.”

They both share a laugh together, choosing to set aside the concerns, the fear for each other, only letting it out in the way their grips on each other tighten just a little, in the way they tangle their legs together again, in the way they press that little bit closer to each other.

No one else needs to know, though. The rest of the team, Colonel Philips and Peggy, they don’t need to know. All they need is for Steve and Bucky, for the team to know they can do this.

And that’s what Steve is going to give them. He has to.

—

Landing on the train had been the easy part, somehow. Getting into the carriage, too. The guards had been unpleasant, but nothing Steve can’t handle.

What really gets him is watching Bucky back into a corner, using the last of his ammunition on the guards and dropping his gun, glancing around. He doesn’t see Steve, though, too panicked to focus. That is, until the door slides open and Steve catches his eye, resisting the urge to smile at the relief on Bucky’s face.

Like Steve could ever leave him behind.

Fishing his own gun out of it’s holster, Steve tosses it carefully to Bucky, giving him a second to get a good grip on it and waiting for a gap in the assailant’s shots.

And when it comes, they work like clockwork, backing him into a corner so Bucky can take the shot. Silence finally falls on them, and they both step over carefully to make sure he’s not moving.

“I had him on the ropes.”

Steve can’t help but chuckle softly to himself, just for a second.

“I know you did.”

There’s a brief moment of peaceful familiarity where they share a smile that’s more than just soldiers edging down from the adrenalin of a fight. Less of battle-work relief and more of that settled safeness they’ve always had with each other.

Steve hears the charge of the blaster before Bucky does, though, and he hardly even has time to locate the sound before he pushes Bucky out of the way with the yell, only just taking the impact on his shield, but he wasn’t prepared in time and the shield is blasted from his hand as he smashes against the wall of the car., the shot from the cannon absolutely demolishing the other side.

His ears are ringing, his head is spinning, but Steve has to pull it together, pushing up a little and shaking his head because he can hear shots, he can hear the blaster charging up again and Bucky’s still here, he’s still in danger and Steve can’t let anything happen to him—

Another shot rings out and it’s almost as though everything happens in slow motion. Bucky deflects the blast with Steve’s shield, but the force of it knocks him clean off his feet and right out of the train car, barely managing to grasp onto a mangled railing before he plummets. Steve’s on his feet before he knows it, picking up his shield and throwing it as hard as he can at the guard.

The sound is all he needs to know it hit home, but he doesn’t pause to check, already tugging his helmet off and throwing himself at the burnt-out hole in the side of the carriage, yelling Bucky’s name and wasting no time to edge out onto what little railing is left.

With the wind howling like mad and the train going much faster than is safe, though, there’s only so long Bucky can hold on, and Steve can already see him slipping, and he’s barely holding on, and Steve can’t— he can’t let this happen—

“Bucky—!”

Ignoring the creaking of the rail he’s shuffling out on, Steve pushes that little harder, moving that little faster and reaching out and the ruined metal Bucky’s clinging onto is shaking hard, unstable and about to snap. Swallowing down on every single sense of self-preservation he has, Steve makes a fatal lunge, keeping his grip to the rail with one hand and grasping Bucky with the other just as he’s about to fall.

The rail creaks dangerously, already coming free, and Steve wastes no time to throw him back into the carriage as hard as he can. A loud thud tells Steve that Bucky’s landed safely, and relief washes over him as he turns to make sure Bucky’s okay.

And it’s at that moment, when Bucky meets his eyes, still on the floor of the carriage, that the rails supporting Steve snap, breaking free and suddenly he’s just falling, yelling and reaching out for a train that’s already so far out of reach, growing smaller and smaller until everything turns dark, and the last thing Steve hears is his own screaming, cutting through the howling wind.


	3. A Role You Can't Sustain

There’s no screaming when Steve opens his eyes, but he’s not sure why, not sure if that’s because he can’t yell or maybe he’s just gone and he doesn’t know it yet.

Faintly, though, he can hear groaning, and it matches the agonising pain he can feel, the freezing cold making his arm throb as someone - or something - drags him off, making the pain in his arm flare up, and everything’s hazy and foggy and Steve can barely see, hardly even remember where he is as he glances down at his arm, and—

Half of it is just— gone, torn clean off, and the agony multiplies tenfold, almost as though the serum that keeps him from all that pain has gone along with it.

The edges of his vision starts blacking out and Steve can’t even focus let alone try and block out the pain, and before he knows it, yet again, everything’s gone dark.

—

_So much yelling._

All he can hear is yelling, shattered, agonised screaming to match the horrendous pain in whatever’s left of his arm, not that he can even be sure that there’s anything left.

There’s grinding echoing through his body, somewhere he can feel his skin being torn at, and the longer he stays conscious, the more he can feel the pulsing, terrifying agony that nothing can end, not even the serum that’s brought him so far already.

And it’s raging, he can feel it, battling against every wave of pain, against the fresh wounds they keep hacking at over and over, against everything raging through his body.

But it’s just not enough.

—

It took a good half hour of yelling and orders for Philips to keep Bucky from marching into that room and beating the life out of Zola. But still, he’s out there, and Philips is in here, and the longer Bucky waits the worse he feels for it.

Not only because he wants to break that little weasel’s jaw, but because he knows even if he did, it wouldn’t fix anything.

It wouldn’t make him feel any better, and it wouldn’t bring Steve back.

Pushing himself up, Bucky snags his coat and shrugs it on carelessly, barely making it to the door. He’s gotta get out of here, clear his head, try and pull himself together before he falls apart.

—

The whir of mechanics brings him back into consciousness, and everything is a haze around him, starting at the dull throb in his shoulder and moving out from there, and he’s not sure where he is, not sure who he is. Bringing his hands up carefully, the mechanical sounds follow suit, a heavy weight moving on his left, and for a moment he can’t quite grasp the concept of what he’s seeing.

His entire left arm is made of metal, of mechanics and who knows what.

People are moving around him— doctors, by the look of the coats, of the crude equipment and they way the surroundings are set up, and one approaches, maybe to check his vitals, maybe to take something else, replace it with another robotic attachment, and before he knows it he lashes out, unbelievable strength throwing the man across the room.

Within moments, three guards are on him, struggling to hold him down while another doctor hurries over with a needle and— No, he’s not going out again, _he’s not letting them do more of this to him_ —

Everything turns foggy, fading away, and again, he’s falling into nothing.

—

It’s hard to imagine that this bar was full of life, now that it’s burned out, empty. Destroyed.

Much like Bucky, really.

One of the tables was still in tact when he arrived, and he’d managed to slump down on a chair that wasn’t yet destroyed with a bottle and a small glass. Slowly but surely, for about an hour now, Bucky’s been working on that bottle, waiting for it to do something. To numb this hollow, awful pain in his chest that just won’t go away.

Footsteps sound behind him, but Bucky can’t bring himself to move, to turn around and possibly face anyone right now.

Peggy doesn’t give him a choice, though, stepping into his line of sight, her forehead wrinkled in concern as she watches him.

“Steve would make short work of that bottle.”

Bucky manages to let out a short, choked laugh around the lump in his throat, staring at the glass blankly.

“Y’know, there was a time when he couldn’t even handle a glass.”

Peggy laughs, soft but genuine, and Bucky wonders for a moment how she manages it when he’s sure he sounded like a dying cat.

“James—“

“With all due respect, ma’am, whatever it is can wait.”

“I’m not here to nag you, James.”

She disappears from his line of sight, but Bucky doesn’t follow her, too tired to even consider moving right now, unless it’s to take another drink. And maybe that’s enough for her to realise this is pointless and leave him alone.

Instead, Peggy takes him by surprise by pulling up the only stable chair left and setting a glass down on the table.

It takes him a minute, but Bucky finally pours her a drink, a careful, half-sized shot. He’s never seen Peggy drink, and he’s not sure she wants to go back to work a little less than composed, not right now. Not with the hell that’s still running rampant after the mess of their mission.

“You can’t keep blaming yourself.”

Another snort, one of disbelief this time, and Bucky takes a moment to finish off what’s left in his glass before answering, letting the liquid burn on the way down before he speaks.

“Let’s have the best thing in your life fall to their death saving your sorry ass, and then hear you say that.”

“Steve did what he believed was right, and you want to turn around and say that he was wrong? For saving someone he loved?”

Something twists sharply in Bucky’s chest at the word ‘loved’, and he barely manages to pour himself another drink before he’s tipped it down his throat in no time. Peggy’s, he notices, remains untouched on the tabletop.

“If you’re here to give me a pep-talk—“

“I’m here because you lost someone close to you, and I can’t stand the thought of letting you bear that alone.”

Bucky doesn’t have an answer to that, letting silence fall around them instead. He doesn’t need her— doesn’t need _anyone_ , he just needs to drown himself in this damn bottle and give himself a chance to fall apart.

Though, knowing Bucky’s awful luck, that won’t work anyway.

“James—“

“Peggy, I appreciate the thought, but I don’t— think this is gonna help.”

“Something could, though—“

“Like _what_?”

“Like—“

She pauses, and for the first time since she arrived Bucky meets her eyes and he finally sees that there’s something more to her visit, some sort of faraway hope in her eyes that she doesn’t even seem to have a firm grasp on.

“We need someone, James— Someone who can stand for everything he believed in, someone who can make all those men believe in the same thing—“

“No way, not interested—“

“Sergeant Barnes—“

“You think you can catch me out with that order crap? Try again, doll—“

Bucky gulps down another drink, letting the liquor settle in his stomach and waiting for it to set in, to turn Peggy’s stern expression into something more pleasant and less guilt-inducing, but it’s only making it worse instead.

“You knew him. Better than _anyone_ could. You know what he stood for, you know what he’d want us to do.”

“You don’t get it, do you—“

Before Bucky knows it he’s on his feet, glass abandoned on the table, glaring down at Peggy with all the bitter agony he’s got weighing him down.

“ _No one_ can stand for that, no one else but _him_ , and— and _he’s not here,_ your— precious _Captain_ is gone, so— _s-so_ —“

That’s all he’s got, slumping back down on his rickety chair and abandoning the glass, going straight for the bottle instead because something about _saying it out loud_ just makes it all so real, so much _worse_. Like he can’t pretend anymore, because he’s finally admitted it out loud.

“He may be gone, James—“

Peggy reaches out and catches Bucky’s hand, and his eye, holding his gaze steadily. There’s just something about the fierce determination in her eyes that makes it impossible for Bucky to look away, and he _hates it_.

“—But he doesn’t have to be lost.”

_Sure, when you put it like that—_

Shaking his head, Bucky pulls his hand away from Peggy’s grasp and leans back in his chair.

“You might wanna look somewhere else, Agent. What you’re looking for ain’t here.”

For a second, she seems as though she’s going to keep arguing, keep trying to persuade him to do something insane, and— _wrong_ , but— she doesn’t. Instead, her hand falls to her lap, that faint hope fading from her eyes, and if Bucky had enough energy to feel anything he might feel guilty.

_If_.

Finally, she picks up the glass, holding it up for a moment before polishing off it’s contents with ease. Silence stretches out while she sets it down and gathers herself, standing up again and stepping towards the door.

At least she knows a lost cause when she sees one.

“Don’t try and do this alone, James. It’s not what he would want.”

The words sting, but before Bucky can snap at her again, Peggy’s gone, leaving him to his own misery. And really, they’re both probably better off that way.

—

The next morning brings nothing but a horrible hangover and the screeching realisation that the wonderful smell of Steve all around him is coming from the sheets in his cot, where Bucky had passed out the night before, and not Steve himself.

If it weren’t for the noise coming from outside, Bucky wouldn’t bother getting up at all.

When he does, Bucky’s running on autopilot, barely registering anything he’s doing until he’s done it, and by then it doesn’t matter anyway. He skips the shower and a shave, opting to keep his clothes because they smell like Steve now and that’s probably all that’s keeping him upright, really.

He splashes his face with cold water a few times before stepping outside, cringing against the bright lights and cursing whoever thought it would be okay to burn his eyeballs out of their sockets like this—

“Sorry, Sarge—“

A kid bumps into Bucky, can’t be older then nineteen if he’s lucky, and there’s something about his smile that’s familiar to Bucky but he can’t quite place it. He knows this kid, though, _why—_

“Jesus, Bucky, I almost didn’t recognise you—“

The kid starts brushing off his uniform, babbling apologies like he’d morally offended Bucky or something, and all he can do is shake his head dumbly, still trying to get the wheels turning in his mind and figure out where he knows this kid from.

“—And if you need anything, I’m never too far away— “

It actually sounds sincere, which surprises Bucky all the more until it hits him. This kid is one of the hundreds of prisoners the Commandos had saved with Steve leading them, and Bucky’s almost knocked over by the realisation of it. That they saved his life, all those months again, from a burning Hydra facility.

“You’re that kid— Tom, right?”

“Only my mom calls me that— the guys call me Toro, sir—“

Bucky almost smiles. Almost.

“Hey— thanks, Toro, I’ll keep that in mind—“

The kid nods and hurries off, no doubt late for some training or the other, leaving Bucky to stare after him, mind reeling back to the day they’d freed all these kids. Boys who were barely even old enough to be there, who’d been locked up and makes to work for god only knows how long.

They were lucky to get out at all, Bucky remembers saying it to Steve, after they’d come back. He can even remember the argument they’d had beforehand, about how it was too dangerous, how Steve was going to get himself killed.

That’d been ten minutes before marching out, and Steve hadn’t held it against him for a second. Not even when Bucky tried to apologise, settled by a fire at their camp on the way back to base.

And Steve has _laughed_ , that damn punk, and Bucky can still remember it like it was _yesterday_ —

_“You spoke your mind, I’m not gonna be mad at you for that. And you were probably right— we’re lucky all this worked. But those kids didn’t deserve to be stuck in there, without any hope of getting out. Maybe I can’t win every fight, Buck, but— it’s not about winning. It’s about saving them. Even if they can’t make it out— the way I am, now? The suit, and the shield— they see it, and they have faith again, Bucky. I can’t take that away from them, just because I might fail. Especially if they’re not gonna make it. I owe them that much.”_

Damnit. How is he _still_ changing Bucky’s life, even _now_ —

Cursing himself, Bucky wanders off to find Carter, hoping to god she’s good enough not to rub this in his face.

—

Peggy’s distracted when Bucky finally finds her, going over reports with Howard, and Bucky’s not sure his hangover’s worn off enough for him to deal with Stark talking too much, today. Instead, he wanders around the lab, poking at papers and prototypes the guy’s been working on, waiting for them to finish.

It’s not until he spots the shield on the bottom shelf of a table that Bucky actually feels something real, again.

Without a word, Bucky picks it up, staring at the red-white-and-blue emblem for a few moments, so lost in everything it stands for, everything _Steve made it stand for_ that he doesn’t realise Peggy and Howard have fallen silent, not until he finally looks up again, and finds them staring at him.

“Don’t suppose I could change my mind?”

“Not sure I made it a conditioned option, Sergeant.”

“Captain, now, I guess.”

Bucky doesn’t even sound sure of it. One thing he is sure of, though, is— this is right. Someone has to do this, to stand up and be everything Steve always was. Everything that gave those kids, that gave the Commandos, that gave _Bucky_ so much hope every day.

And he might not be the right guy for the job, but Bucky’s damn sure he won’t give someone else a chance to screw it up.

“M’gonna need a new uniform.”

“Stark can handle it—“

“Not the same one, I want—“

His voice catches in his throat for a second, and Bucky has to pull himself back together before he tries again.

“I wanna do something different. That alright, Stark?”

“Whatever you want, pal.”

Bucky finally really _looks_ at them and notices they’re both sharing this small sort of smile, the same hope in Peggy’s eyes, the same one that Bucky remembers having seen in Toro’s, that day.

And right now— that’s enough. Knowing Bucky can take everything Steve was giving those people, and _keep giving it—_ it’s the right thing to do. Bucky knows it.

And it makes him feel a little closer to Steve. Just a little.

“Maybe we should— get started, then.”

—

<“Captain America could be quite useful to our cause—“>

He’s not sure who they’re referring to, the voices echoing around him, and somehow, he knows they’re not meant for him, but he can hear them anyway.

He can hear the scientist grumbling at the other end of the room, carefully nursing a bruise that looks a week old. He can hear a technician typing into a console more than a few meters away, distinguish every single keystroke. He can hear the scrape of nail on skin as one of the many surrounding men scratches his cheek. His mind is full of dead, empty silence.

And it lets him take in everything.

<“The serum is a problem, he will need constant conditioning against it’s effects—“>

An annoyed tsk reaches his ears, and he can’t help but wonder what it means, if any of it relates to him at all. All he can do is sit here, strapped to a chair with a headset humming on his head steadily, waiting for something, for a direction.

In the back of his mind, though, there’s a voice. Something familiar, what the hell is it saying—

_Steve—_

Who the hell is Steve?

_Steve, you have to get up, you have to fight—_

There’s nothing to fight, there’s no cause, no direction, nothing in his mind that points him to what he needs to fight. All he can do is wait. Just wait.

Whirring sounds again, and it still takes him by surprise, the robotic appendage that is now his arm, and he pushes a little harder, trying to get free, to find out just what he’s meant to fight—

<“Damnit, he’s moving without orders— quickly now, we need to—“>

_No—_

The restraints are strong, but he’s stronger and they’re already failing against him, mechanics pushing harder in his arm to wrench free, and metal screeches against metal as he breaks free, adrenaline rushing through his body, pushing him harder to find out what he’s meant to fight, what that voice in his head wants him to do.

Almost instantly, though, a surge hits him, shocking his entire body, silencing the voice in his head and he falls limp in the chair, not even noticing the men that rush forward to restrain his arm again.

But it doesn’t matter, he’s not moving— he can’t. The surges keep going, sedating him, wiping him clean and cleaner until there’s nothing left beyond a shell strapped to a chair. Waiting for orders like a toy soldier.

—

Philips’ forces on the ground can make short work of whatever Hydra has left, thank god, because Bucky’s still trying to make sense of everything. Trying to wrap his head around the fact that in very little time, he’d managed to put a new suit together with Stark - the stars and stripes remained, of course, but from his hips down is black, a sort of tribute Bucky wanted shown on the uniform he’s still not sure he deserves to wear - and marched out on an entirely crazy plan that could’ve gotten them all killed, and god only knows what fortune struck them that they’ve made it through.

Bucky still can’t quite grasp the fact that Schmidt is gone, the cube gone along with him. Really, he never really thought he could do it, not successfully.

And yet, here he stands, Steve’s shield still in his hands while he starts at the controls of a jet that’s going to cause some big problems for some important places. Including home.

Peggy’s on the line, she’s trying to tell him they can land the jet, that there’s a way around it, but Bucky knows it’s too late. He’s not even sure Stark himself could land this jet, and they don’t have time to try. He’s running out of options, and out of time.

Hell, this whole war was basically a suicide mission the moment he got there.

Pushing on the controls, Bucky sends the jet into a nosedive; about all he can really do, considering how it’s set to fly. It’ll be enough, though. Enough to save the world from what’s left of Schmidt’s plans. And that’s what matters, when it comes down to it.

It’s what Steve would want.

Peggy’s still talking on the radio, but her voice is faint, and as glad as Bucky is to have someone there with him, all he can imagine is Steve, hear his voice, his laugh, see his dumb smile that lit up the world. All he can bring himself to think about is Steve.

As he’s about to crash, Bucky wonders— hopes he’ll get to see him again.


	4. Stuttering Machine

<“Who are you?”>

<“The Winter Soldier.”>

The General stands before him, appraising him, taking him in. His physique, his stature, his posture, his blank expression. The Soldier doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make eye contact— he just waits, allows the General his right to observe the weapon his men have crafted so well for him.

There’s a sort of calculated pride in his eyes as he watches the Soldier, almost appraising him, and all he can do is await approval, await his orders. Await whatever mission is sure to come to him.

<“Your purpose, Winter Soldier?”>

<“To serve the Republic.”>

<“Good, good—“>

A sense of satisfaction crosses the General’s face, curling his lips in a sort of smirk, and the Soldier can only watch, staring blankly at a point over the General’s shoulder, waiting.

<“Return to your superiors, Soldier. They will assign you with a mission.”>

<“Yes, General.”>

He recognises the dismissal, the instruction to begin whatever tasks he is needed for, and wastes no time leaving the room as he’s been told. Whatever missions await him, he knows he can waste no time, knows the Republic have a cause he is required to assist, by any means necessary, until told otherwise.

—

After hours spent strapped in another chair, barely conscious while his mind filled with fresh information on his missions, the Soldier has learned a great deal of things. He has learned that his main cause is target elimination, taking care of those who could pose a threat to the Republic without being detected. He knows he is to remain unseen, a ghost to the world he is barely skimming across in the coming mission.

The suit he’s been given is unique, light and flexible but sturdy, designed to absorb impact, make it easier for him to move at high speeds. There’s no distinguishing features, nothing that could be memorable to anyone who may see him, and— of course, his arm is exposed. There’s little reason to cover it up, not when it doesn’t need protection.

There is, however, a barely visible outline of a star, on his chest. One he brushes off almost immediately, taking no more than a moment to trace the outline of it. It’s the same colour as the rest of his suit, a charcoal black that will help him conceal himself, it’s just a little raised, as though the symbol on his arm needs emphasis.

And the Soldier can’t help but pause as he brushes the suit off, wondering why there’s something familiar about it. As though he’s worn it before, but he can’t recall when.

Maybe he was meant to forget.

His equipment is standard issue, and using them will come naturally, he knows. He knows the use for the knives in their sheaths on his lower back, the use for the pair of submachine guns strapped conveniently to his back, for the pistol on his side. All offensive, all possibilities to complete the task at hand.

He knows the cause for the two smaller pistols strapped to his other side. Small calibre, relatively useless unless at close range. He knows they are meant to be use in the event of a capture, to avoid the extreme that any other would try and reach secrets of the Republic that have been dug away in his mind.

His arm whirrs as he methodically checks the placement of each weapon one by one, of his back-up knives tucked away in case he happens to need them, before ensuring the mask that covers a majority of his face is secure. He’s a ghost, what use would his face do for anyone?

Without wasting anymore time, he heads out, disappearing as silently as he appeared.

—

It’s part of his mission parameters to remain out of sight, and if doing so is impossible, to ensure none are left to witness him. The Soldier is a ghost, he doesn’t exist. He hasn’t until now, and he won’t in the future.

So when this particular politician has some surprisingly alert security that were not involved in the intelligence he received, the Soldier finds he needs to improvise.

Unfortunately, improvisation leads to bodies, ones he will need to deal with before this mission ends.

Improvisation also leads to a flash of hesitation, a question arising in his mind for the briefest moment and he can’t help but wonder why this man needs to die, and that moment is all it takes for a knife bury into his left arm with a horrific screech, metal grinding on metal and sending the receptors crazy, shooting signals of who knows what back to his brain that aren’t quite pain, but aren’t quite anything he recalls feeling.

He lashes out without a second thought, fury bubbling up in his gut and turning him ugly with a deep growl, and the man slides to the floor with his own knife in his throat. The Soldier’s arm whirrs pathetically, mechanics trying to compensate for the damage done. It’s still functioning, but it feels heavy, sluggish.

Pushing onwards, the Soldier focuses on the remains of the mission, to complete what needs to be done and dispose of these bodies, to ensure he remains a ghost.

—

The doctors and scientists are bickering quietly, practically hissing at each other over his arm, and all he can do is stay strapped to the chair and listen to them as they argue over the wound on his arm.

It had begun to heal remarkably quickly, but not quickly enough for them, and the Soldier keeps catching the word ‘serum’ over and over, as though it means something vital in regards to him, though he can’t quite understand why. It hasn’t been part of any of the information he’s been given.

And it’s only then, when he tries to tune out and focus on nothing that the little voice sounds in the back of his mind again, the one he hasn’t heard for maybe weeks, now.

_Shouldn’t you find out?_

The Soldier can’t fathom why he would need to, let alone where the voice is coming from, but it seems familiar, as though he can trust it, and maybe he should find out, maybe it’s worth investigating. He’s sure the information is vital to the Republic somehow, or they wouldn’t be arguing over it—

_It’s vital to you—_

Still, for whatever reason, he feels he needs to find out more about this mysterious serum and why it’s so important, and before he knows it he’s pulling free of the restraints keeping him in place, already looking around for a file or some paper or anything that could contain any information—

Before he knows it, men are swarming around him, guards pinning him back down while the scientists all move to their stations, and he doesn’t understand, he just wants to know— And the damn voice is still yelling in the back of his mind, telling him to fight, to get up, to push and find some answers, but there’s too many guards and the scientists are already beginning the process, panels moving in to surround his head, and he knows what comes next.

—

Since the incident - though what incident, the Soldier can’t quite recall - he’s scheduled for regular sessions of information replenishment, they call it. Something to do with the damage sustained in whatever failed mission cost him his arm, and left him with this replacement, he assumes. It’s not his place to know, above his position to inquire about such things, not when he has fresh missions in play.

And each mission is outlined much like the last; locate the target based on intelligence provided, find the simplest position from which to take the target out, and do so without being seen. Some require it to look like an accident, but some just call on his own training to take the best shot available to him, to complete the mission as efficiently and silently as possible.

Before long, it’s routine. Wake up, undertake the programming that keeps his mind intact, get his mission parameters, check his equipment and weapons, and complete the mission itself. He takes breaks of course, scheduled intervals to eat the standard issue basic nutrition formulated for the soldiers, to sleep enough to keep him running, to complete training that sharpens his skills that little bit more.

The days, weeks, months blur together until everything is defined by missions, by assignments handed to him by the General, by the recruits he trains, by the lives he’s to take.

This is all he is. All he ever will be. All they will ever need him to be.

—

There’s a room full of potential assets he’s to train, and the Soldier finds himself wondering just how he’s supposed to shape these children for anything useful to the Republic, when a majority of them can’t even piece together a weapon without fumbling.

Most have made at least one error in disassembling their firearms, and those who have reached the stage of reassembly are failing miserably. In the back of his mind, a voice asks who taught the soldier these skills, who showed him where each piece so carefully goes, how to piece it all together such that the weapon fires with the precision and power it was made for.

But he can’t remember, or he’s not supposed to, and the thought is brushed aside.

Instead, he focuses on this. On the task at hand; teaching these men and women their cause, the things they’ll need if they wish to serve the way they say they do.

And most of them won’t make the cut, but they have been prepared for that. It’s not his concern. All the Soldier is to do is to train them. The rest is in their own hands.

—

Regular reports are given on the trainees, outlining their progress, their potential. More than half of them are removed from the program within two weeks, and the Soldier is still considering how many more are wasting his time.

There are select few, though, who seem to be doing their job. Who are desperate to do what they’re here to do, to serve the way they are expected to.

Particularly a young girl with vibrant red hair, fierce eyes, and the willpower to match.

Whatever comes, the Soldier sure her future is very closely tied to the cause she’s training to serve, if she is picked once this program is complete.

And, as it stands, he is sure she will be.

—

His fists clench on reflex more than anything as someone works carefully on his arm.

This isn’t the first time it’s been damaged in an impact, but it is the first time there’s an armour-piercing bullet jutting out of what would be his bicep if it was flesh and blood. Instead, the mechanics click pathetically, mostly powered down except for the base functions that allow them to see it’s still running and what may be damaged.

Enough for the shock of each twitch to radiate back to the Soldier’s brain, for him to register what would normally be pain under any other circumstances. But all he can do is grit his teeth and wait, allow them to remove the bullet without causing anymore damage and to patch up the mechanical work.

So, the Soldier waits, perched tensely in the examination chair, fingers twitching and eyes narrowing with each jolt of uncomfortable signals sent from the arm, but he has to wait.

Wait for them to make him fit for the next mission, whatever that may be.

—

The remaining five recruits are removed from his care, their training complete, moved onto the final stage of the program.

One of them is the red-headed girl, and as the Soldier watches them file out of the room, he can’t help but feel a flare of pride. He’s glad she made it, proved herself to be the asset she’s always had the potential to be.

He’s not responsible for her, though, and that pride is not his to feel.

—

Why?

A Soviet scientist who is defecting to America is awaiting his contact, out in the open, supposedly safe under the cover of night. Though, maybe not, considering the Soldier has a sniper rifle fixed to his position. He can practically see the hairs on the man’s balding head through the scope, and yet—

All he can ask himself is why? Why is this necessary, to take this shot? To take this man’s life?

_You don’t have to do this—_

Yes, he does. Shaking his head, he refocuses, pushing the questions to the back of his mind, doing his best to ignore them, instead trying to account for the wind and the error over this sort of distance, lining up what should be the perfect shot.

But he can’t take it, _why can’t he take it—_

The window is closing and Steven knows it, he’s running out of time before this man is due to meet his contact, and if he doesn’t take this shot they’re not going to get another chance. Every order he has, every piece of information, everything given to him says take the goddamn shot.

_Don’t—!_

He can’t do it, he can’t, this man— _he doesn’t deserve—_

Shaking his head again, the Soldier rubs at his eyes, his finger slipping off the trigger, and when he looks up again the man is already speaking to his contact. The window’s closed, his chance is gone, if he takes the shot now there’s too much risk of him being spotted, and that’s something he can’t risk under any circumstances.

There’s a sense of satisfaction in the back of his mind, though, and he doesn’t know where it’s come from, doesn’t know why it’s there. He failed his mission, one that was vital to their cause. The General won’t be happy.

So why is he?

—

This chair is becoming a little too familiar. Especially with the stubborn voice trying to pipe up in the back of his head that’s he’s trying so damn hard to drown out, especially when it’s the reason he screwed up an entire operation.

<“I don’t understand how this happened—!”>

The General seems furious, pacing back and forth through the lab, gesturing wildly at the doctor who’s fumbling his way through an explanation. It doesn’t matter, though. The mission is over, failed, the scientist long gone. Safe in enemy hands, practically untouchable.

All that’s left is to deal with the reason he’s still alive.

<“I don’t care what it takes, I don’t care— Just get it done—“>

And with that, the General’s gone, leaving many of the scientists shocked, jittery, rushing around and playing with the machines, muttering something about increasing the strength, changing the frequency of who knows what, and all he can do is sit in the chair, shackled in by reinforced restraints that even his arm can’t break through.

Certain words reach him, words like ‘program’, like ‘cryostasis’, like ‘danger’, and he wonders how much of this refers to him.

Before he knows it, something’s being injected into his right arm, and things are starting to grow a little dark around the edges of his vision. It’s too late to struggle, though, and before long he’s out cold.

—

Everything’s jagged, broken, shattered in his mind, fragments of memories that can’t belong to him. A sharp, one-sided grin on the face of a man he doesn’t recognise, a frail hand reaching for him from a bed, the sight of fireworks high up in the sky, viewed from a building he can’t recall setting up on—

Someone’s yelling, and the Soldier’s not sure who, maybe it’s him, but whoever it is just keeps on going as he lashes out, striking at the closest man in a white coat and practically throwing him across the room.

Now they’re yelling out a name, one he doesn’t recognise, but it feels so familiar—

“Bucky—!”

Three men launch themselves at him, bigger than the others with guns strapped to their side, and they barely manage to hold him still long enough for a smaller man to approach, injecting something straight into his neck, sedating him enough for the men to haul him into a chair—

<“Quickly, the program—“>

Restraints hold him in place, tight and stronger than he is, and he can’t do this again, not like this, he needs to figure out what these images are, why someone’s yelling “not without you!” over and over in his head, while someone else’s screaming— his own screaming is surrounding him, and he can’t do this again—

But it’s too late, the equipment already whirring and moving around him, panels coming to rest on his head so the process can start, and the high electric shocks are hitting him relentlessly, and all he can hear anymore is screaming.

—

Once the faces change, the rules change.

The moment he is brought out of the tube, out of his frozen state, the Soldier fights. He doesn’t recognise these men, doesn’t recognise the room, doesn’t know where he is or what he is. All he knows is he’s in danger, that everything that’s jumbled up in his head makes no sense at all.

All he knows is this isn’t where he’s supposed to be.

There are guards, though, too many guards and not enough space, not enough time to try and escape, and against all the yelling in his head, the jumbled, confused agony, the Soldier is aware that he’s being strapped down in the chair again, his arm whirring as he tried to free himself, chest heaving as the panels move in, pressing to either side of his head.

More yelling, screaming, pain, the same as every other program that’s forced into his mind, as every other session that sedates him, that moulds him.

But this time, something’s different.

—

The only colour he’s given is red and blue, mingling with white stripes, white stars, symbols of something. That much he knows. In between training and targets and fresh protocols, there’s a symbol.

Stars and stripes, typical of America. Blurs of red and flashes of blue in his mind, striking and bold and deadly. Manipulated to a circle, large and round, shining, clean metal with a white star in the middle.

Whatever it is, whatever it stands for, that symbol, tied in with a name they won’t stop repeating to him, Captain America, it’s an enemy. A target. Something he is to eliminate, if it ever comes before him again.

—

“You— you are to be the new fist of Hydra. Do you understand?”

The Soldier nods, his hands methodically moving over his weapons, ensuring everything is in place before he leaves.

“You have a duty to this cause, to shape this world.”

He nods again, slipping the mask into position over his mouth and nose. His attire is still the same, dark and sturdy and solid, black to keep him concealed. The only thing that remains exposed is the arm, but there’s not much that can threaten that.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

There is little choice; this is what the Soldier exists for, what he was so carefully crafted for. His abilities, his strength, his skill at remaining unseen, at taking out targets without a soul knowing he’d even passed by, it all comes down to missions like this.

This is what he is.

—

The targets are never explained to him, no details given besides those he needs, and the Soldier has those programmed directly, in order to save time.

His first target from his new superiors, though, seemed to strike nerve he can’t quite put his finger on. A weapons engineer who has been interfering with their cause, who needs to be stopped at all costs.

Something stirs in his mind, a voice the Soldier had not heard in a long time, but it is no where near loud enough, barely squeaking behind his orders. Shooting out the tyres was easy enough, doing so in a position to make the car flip much the same. But doing so in a way that would all but ruin the car, that would ensure the death of the man in the front seat and make it appear to be an accident?

For the Soldier, easy enough.

The car bursts into flames on the highway, and the Soldier doesn’t waste time, turning to leave before authorities arrive. He knows there’s no hope for the passengers anymore, knows it was necessary for the cause of those he now works for.

Why, then, would he regret this? What could possibly make him regret orders he knows he needed to complete? Why would he be seeing a room, a laboratory of some form, filled with warm light and equipment, benches laid out with shields in front of a man with a moustache and a smug sort of grin on his face?

Why?


	5. Regret is Nothing More than a Reaccurring Disease

The noise of a radio is what makes Bucky stir, and it almost sounds familiar, almost like the sound that comes out of their beaten radio at home, and god he missed that sound, missed something familiar and close, especially after—

Squinting against the light, Bucky opens his eyes for what feels like the first time in an age, and he can’t help but wonder just where the hell he is. He can hear traffic outside, the same as it always was in the city, a dim humming under the sound of the radio, and Bucky almost finds himself smiling at the familiarity of it all as he pushes himself up because maybe, maybe he finally got to come home.

Except it’s not home, not without Steve, so the smile falls short.

The door opens and a woman steps inside, dressed smartly in her uniform, and it’s almost too convenient but Bucky can’t quite put his finger on what feels out of place.

“Where am I?”

“You’re in a recovery room, in New York City.”

So he is home. Or some kind of home—

The game. That’s what it is—

“I was at that game.”

“Excuse me?”

“The game you’ve got going on the radio, I was there. So let’s try this again; where am I?”

“Captain Barnes—“

“Don’t you dare—“

Bucky doesn’t realise he’s on his feet until he’s taken a step towards her, adrenalin pumping through his system as memories start hitting him one by one, and he can remember again, he remembers the jet going down, he remembers the impact, the screeching metal, the painful cold— this isn’t possible—

Two men in black gear step into the room, presumably to detain him but Bucky’s not about to let that happen, he’s not getting locked away somewhere when he doesn’t even know where he is. He didn’t crash that damn plane to end up in some fake prison, or on another slab—

Before he knows what he’s doing, Bucky takes the two guards out, rushing past the woman as he pushes out of the room, taking all of a second to register just how different the large room beyond it is before he heads out, pushing aching, over rested muscles to run.

But he’s run in worse condition, and he’s gonna do it again.

This building is nothing like he’s ever seen - not that he’s seeing so much of it now, speeding through before anyone can stop him. It’s something he never could’ve imagined, though— and it only gets more crazy when he bursts outside, right onto the street and there’s cars all over the place but they look— different, nothing like any make or model he recognises. Bucky knows he doesn’t have time to think on it, though— he just runs, heading down the street, moving with the traffic as quickly as he can because he can’t possibly believe that the people who thought they could trick him with that mean well.

It’s all— it’s too much, though, and Bucky doesn’t know where to go let alone where he’s going, and— god, New York never looked like this, before.

Screens cover surfaces all around him, there’s rushes of people everywhere, noise and extreme hustle and bustle, so much energy and life in a city he hasn’t seen in years, in a city he barely even recognises, one he never should have seen again and Bucky doesn’t understand what the hell is going on, where the hell he is.

Sirens sound, big, dark cars following a moment later, and Bucky tenses even more so than he already had, eyeing each approaching vehicle and already trying to figure out how he can escape.

“Easy, Sergeant.”

The voice isn’t familiar, but the tone is, strong and commanding, a soldier. No matter what you do or where you fight, soldiers always sound the same.

Besides, whoever this guy is called him Sergeant; Bucky’s real rank, always will be. The stars and stripes in suit form doesn’t change that, even if the world disagreed.

“Sorry about that. We thought you might take it easier if we broke it to you slow.”

“Take what? Who the hell— and _where_ the hell—“

Bucky’s hands clench into tight fists as a man approaches him, one of his eyes covered with an eyepatch, and he’s got soldier written all over him.

At least one thing in the world hasn’t changed.

“You’ve been asleep, Barnes. For seventy years.”

“What—“

That’s not— possible, how could that happen, he just— Bucky doesn’t get it. He was meant to die down there, that’s what he wanted, to be able to leave, to go to wherever Steve was after he fell and be able to look him in the eye because he knew he did what Steve would’ve wanted.

This, though— all of this is wrong—

“You alright?”

“Things— got weird, huh—“

It’s kinda hard to talk around the lump in his throat, but Bucky manages it. He’s not gonna break down, not out here. He can’t.

“You don’t know the half of it, Barnes.”

—

Some things never change over times, it seems. Bucky still hates hospitals, even the ones seventy years in the future.

He’s stuck in one, though, until they’ve got some answers. SHIELD has a whole legion of doctors that have been poking at him, trying to figure out just what it is in his veins that kept him running through years in the ice that should’ve killed him, and Bucky can’t stand it. It’s all strange enough, being tossed into a whole other world with a bunch of people he doesn’t know, and everyone he does know is probably already dead.

From what he can tell, it’s not like the serum Steve had; it gives him a little extra boost in strength and endurance, but not much, it doesn’t keep him from getting drunk as a skunk and it doesn’t make his eyesight perfect, and it sure as hell hasn’t made him any taller.

It did keep him alive, though, so it has some kind of enhancement on his body, some sort of resilience. Or something. Bucky’s not really sure on the science of it all, he’s just glad they’ve got an answer so he can get out of this place, get to somewhere where he can try and wrap his head around all of this.

God only knows how long that’s going to take.

—

Aliens, what the _hell_ —

Like this ridiculous aircraft-slash-ship-slash-who-knows-what wasn’t crazy enough, Bucky’s just finding out that there’s aliens and gods from another planet and who the hell knows what else.

Stark’s talking again - does this guy ever shut up? God, he’s worse than his dad - and all Bucky really wants to do is walk out— well, fly out seeing as they’re in the air, but what the hell. He doesn’t want anything to do with this mess, Hydra were bad enough.

Steve would do it, though. Steve would plant himself in the middle of this disaster, seventy years in the future or not, messed up as hell or not, and he’d fight. And maybe they’re not the same people, but so long as Bucky’s still wearing this suit and using Steve’s shield, he’s gotta live up to everything Steve believes in.

That’s what’s going to keep him going through this. Hopefully.

—

Bucky can’t deny he misses New York like crazy, despite how different it is now. But that doesn’t mean DC doesn’t have it’s perks.

A great example is that there’s so much space to stretch his legs out here, and he’s perfectly happy to do that pretty much every morning. Hell, it’s not like he’s sleeping anyway, and he’s gotta keep on top of his game if he’s going to stick with this Captain America thing.

He recognises a few joggers, and when he tends to do a few laps every morning it’s no surprise a few of them recognise him. Besides, after the invasion in New York his face has been everywhere, so he’s not so hard to catch out anymore.

In particular, one guy who’s always out here, making his own way along the same route Bucky takes. And Bucky can see him now, approaching him from behind on his first round, and he can’t help but grin as he runs past.

“Nice morning, huh—“

The guy doesn’t answer, huffing in response, but Bucky doesn’t take it to heart, pushing on a little harder. He’s sure he can get another lap in before this guy’s done, but he wants to make sure, just so he can at least try to get some sort of response.

Making his way along the route slowly as the sun starts to rise, and it’s not long before Bucky comes across him again.

“Not a cloud in the sky—“

“Right—“

He manages a huffed answer and Bucky laughs to himself as he carries on, and he doubts he can catch this guy on another round, but he’ll catch up with him somewhere.

Sure enough, when Bucky sees him next, he’s almost at the end of his third lap, and the guy’s catching his breath in the shade.

“I think I remember some of my field medic training, if you need it.”

The guy laughs, and it’s genuine— not one of those oh-Captain-America laughs, but an actual laugh, and Bucky feels a little lighter. Just a little.

“No way, not letting you give me mouth to mouth, buddy.”

This time they both laugh, and Bucky feels a little safer pointing to the insignia on Sam’s sweatshirt, raising an eyebrow.

“What unit?”

“58th pararescue, but I’m working down at the VA.”

A good cause, really. One Bucky’s not sure he’d have the drive for, but Sam must do just fine. And while Bucky’s not sure he can say it out loud, it’s something that reminds him of Steve, in one of the better ways.

Sam reaches out, and Bucky doesn’t let him down, taking his hand and pulling him up onto his feet.

“Sam Wilson.”

“Bucky Barnes.”

“Kinda put that together.”

Sometimes it sucks having everyone know him.

Something’s different about Sam, though. He’s a soldier— well, he used to be, but it’s not really something you grow out of, they both know that. And two tours is an impressive time to spend out in the war, and Bucky won’t say he’s not brave as hell for doing it.

It’s not quite the same, though, and Bucky knows he’s got very little brain mouth filter, so before he can look foolish he excuses himself, only to be called out to again—

“It’s your bed, huh.”

“What?”

“Your bed, it’s— y’know, sleep on the floor enough times, you get used to the rocks and the dirt. Now, I’m at home laying in bed, and it’s like—“

“Gonna sink right through it, right?”

And here Bucky never thought anyone would quite get it. Maybe they’re made of pretty similar stuff, after all.

His phone interrupts, and Bucky curses whoever it is as he fishes it out— Natasha, of course it’s Natasha, with her damn missions and her smiley face, what is that—

“Gotta go, but thanks for the uh— run, right?”

“Hilarious, Barnes.”

Still chuckling, Bucky heads for the curb, slipping into the car as it pulls up, but he spares a second to wave goodbye to Sam, glad he’d spent the time to get to know him, of all the people he’s passed on his runs.

—

It’s not the first time Bucky’s stormed out of SHIELD since he came to DC, and it likely won’t be the last, either, not if they keep playing things out like this. He’s not sure when Captain America translated to Agency-lap-dog, but he sure as hell wasn’t told.

If he had been, there wouldn’t be a Captain America, not one like that.

He needs a break, needs out of this world, just for a little while.

—

Walking into the Smithsonian still feels strange, but at least the first thing he sees in the Captain America exhibit isn’t his own face anymore.

And Bucky had raised absolute hell for that, going crazy at the people who’d organised it and thought the most important thing was the current Captain America, like he was the one that mattered, Like all the work Steve did to set the image, to give all those soldiers, all those people back home something to believe in wasn’t important.

After weeks of arguing, of threatening, of hoping, they finally changed it. Now, Steve’s the centre of the exhibit, as he should be.

Of course, they have a section for Bucky; no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t manage to convince them otherwise, but Bucky steers clear of that area, tugging his cap down a little and stepping over to the tribute to Steve specifically. The biography he’d written himself, so carefully and specifically, doing his best to show the world the man Steve was, without the stars and stripes. Why that man made Captain America what he is.

Even after he was gone.

In a way, it’s— nice, to see this sort of tribute in Steve’s honour, in remembrance of everything he stood for. Everything so many people didn’t see for so long.

Bucky’s been here more times than he can count, since they changed it. Once for every time he felt as though he couldn’t keep doing this, being Captain America. Standing up for everything Steve believed in.

And it reminds him. Not because of the grand displays, not because of the old uniforms and the overhead story played on a loop. But because, in one of the corners, there’s a life-sized image of Steve, from before. When he was small and sickly, and Bucky still saw the heart of gold Steve always had.

Because that kid— that’s who Captain America is. And Bucky can’t let anyone ruin that.

—

As much as Bucky always knew soldiers are made of similar stuff, he never thought it would quite hit home like this does, watching all these people take in Sam’s words, listening to them explain what their tours did to them, what they’re still doing to them.

And he gets it. Boy does he get it. Because the time periods might not match up, the battles might’ve been a little different, but everyone takes home the same thing. Everyone has something they can’t quite shake off. Some more than others. And if anyone gets that they don’t always go away, it’s Bucky.

Hell, he’s seventy years in the future and he’s still waking up in cold sweats and screams of Steve’s name on his lips. Assuming he sleeps at all.

The meeting holds some sort of solidarity, though. For everyone there, it’s a source of comfort, the idea that they’re not alone. The idea that there’s a way to get through it, and Sam’s great at showing that to them, giving them the right words at the right moments.

No wonder he reminds Bucky a lot of Steve.

Bucky hangs back after the meeting, not wanting to draw attention to himself. If Sam wants to talk, he’ll get there, and Bucky’s got nothing but time to spare, today.

“Came to watch the show, huh?”

“What can I say, I was curious.”

They both share a small laugh, and Bucky suddenly finds himself glad he came here, of all places.

“Gets kinda intense in there, doesn’t it.”

The air shifts around them, and Bucky can see Sam’s shoulders drop a little, in a way Bucky knows all too well.

“We’re all carrying something we can’t let go of; fear, regret—“

Regret is particularly familiar to Bucky, so he can’t help but ask;

“You lose someone?”

“My wingman— Riley.”

Sam sounds pretty fond of this guy, and Bucky feels for him, listening to Sam talk about the man he fought with, the man who stood side by side with him, and doesn’t that all sound way too familiar.

“What about you— thinking of getting out?”

“Have been since I got in, really. Just— dunno what I’d do. Not sure I really fit in, here.”

“That’s what we all think, when we come home. Really— you can do whatever you want. Whatever makes you happy.”

Problem is, Bucky still doesn’t know what makes him happy anymore. Not since he lost Steve.

—

There’s a cause. There’s always a cause, and the underlying notion underneath each mission he undertakes. That there is a cause, and each step he takes is towards that cause, towards shaping the future. It’s something that is repeated to him, over and over, to ensure the Soldier understands. Ingrained into each line of his programming over the years. The one lesson he can never forget.

So when new orders are given, when the Soldier is given explicit orders to bring the end of the director of their greatest enemy, he has no reason to hesitate. And no means to.

What he does not anticipate is the possibility of the man being somewhat more resilient than his information suggests. The other agents sent to ensure his quick departure were not quite capable, and when the Soldier steps in with a projectile explosive, taking careful aim and shooting at just the right moment, he can’t help but be a little wary of it’s results.

Still, he takes the necessary steps to move out of the vehicle’s way before it can strike him, watching carefully as it lands, upturned and all but ruined.

But it’s part of his mission perimeters to see the body with his own eyes, and he does not waste time in approaching the car, ripping the door off it’s hinges—

And he’s gone.

He can’t call in. Not yet. The mission isn’t complete.

—

Intelligence tracked the target to an apartment. Residential area, and the apartment does not belong to him, which makes it difficult to ensure the heat signature inside the apartment is the man the Soldier is looking for. And considering his ingrained training tells him he is not to cause unnecessary deaths, it has become a waiting game.

The apartment itself, from what his information has said, belongs to one James Barnes, a SHIELD agent, and Captain America. The Soldier needs to remind himself to remain calm, steady. To keep the image of the well-known suit out of his mind. The stars and stripes, everything they are intended to stand for; it is an automatic enemy, one the Soldier has been pre-programmed to understand. Something he is to eliminate, if it crosses his path. But only if it does not cross the mission he already has.

The time is not right, they say. Despite his importance, despite the image and the threat that image offers, and despite the burning disgust deep in his stomach, the Soldier knows better. He has orders to take out one Nicholas J Fury, and those orders are the only ones he will follow.

—

Climbing the stairs to his apartment, Bucky can’t help but feel glad the day’s over. Tomorrow’s going to be packed, he can see it now, and he needs to get some sort of rest, even if sleep is probably out of the question for more than a few hours.

HIs neighbour, Kate, wanders out of her apartment with a basket of laundry in her arms, chatting away on the phone, and Bucky smiles as he passes by. He likes Kate, she keeps to herself but she’s sweet, always taking a second to say hello but never really milking the Captain America thing.

Besides, there’s something familiar about her, and— Bucky can’t quite pinpoint it, but he doesn’t have many moments like that anymore, so he takes what he can get.

“Hold on— Hey, Bucky—“

Caught by surprise, Bucky turns to see Kate nodding at his door.

“I think you left your stereo on.”

Odd. Bucky hasn’t even touched that thing.

“Right— thanks, sorry about that.”

He waits until Kate’s made her way downstairs before he turns back to the door. The last thing he’s going to do is put some innocent woman in danger.

 Making his way to the window, Bucky heads along the fire escape quietly, making his way to the only window he’d left unlocked, because it’s the one that doesn’t creak or catch on the way up.

Slipping inside, the stereo is playing loud and clear, a song Bucky vaguely remembers from when he was young, so it’s gotta be old. His shield is in the hallway where he left it, and he snags it quickly before he can step into the sitting room, ready for whatever bastard’s looking to try and knock him off already.

And instead— he finds Fury, of all people, lounging in his chair like he owns the place.

Great.

—

This is probably going to end badly, and Bucky knows it, but Fury’s bleeding out on his goddamn floor and the guy’s getting away, the last thing Bucky’s about to do is leave him to disappear.

First logical choice? Leap out the window, apparently.

Glass shatters around him as he bursts into the building across from his own, and he doesn’t stop, pushing on and running through the hallways and god he hopes he’s heading in the right direction because he’s gotta catch this guy.

He can hear him running fast on the roof, and Bucky pushes a little harder, letting out another little burst of speed as he turns another corner and busts another door open with the shield, and he’s sure he’s going to have to answer for the damage he’s doing but he can’t bring himself to care right now, not when he’s so close—

The shooter jumps down to the next building, and Bucky sees him through the window and preparing for the impact as he launches himself across the gap, rolling onto his feet and throwing the shield in one smooth motion, suddenly glad for the hours upon hours he’s spent training with the thing.

The shooter catches it, though, his arm gleaming in the dim light, and Bucky barely has enough time to catch sight of the long, tangled blond hair, the dark eyes and the mask covering everything from just below his eyes down, and— that arm, what the hell is it—

That’s about all he has the time for, though, before the man’s throwing the shield back, and Bucky would catch it if he wasn’t sure the impact would break his ribs. He dives out of the way just in time, and instead it buries into the wall of the brick building behind him, and when Bucky looks up again— he’s gone.

Damnit. God Damnit.

—

There are not many places the Soldier can confirm he knows, but this procedure area, thetube it holds and the chair he’s strapped into after he’s brought out of stasis and hosed down again— those are something he cannot quite find erased from his memory.

It’s in his set of orders to come back here after a mission in completed, to give a status report and undergo whatever treatments they think he requires before being put away again until he’s needed.

Something’s different this time, though. Instead of being strapped down or locked away, he’s told to await his orders, await a fresh mission.

And as much as it is not in his nature, nor his position to question his superiors, the Soldier can’t help but be somewhat curious as to the reason behind this break in procedure. What it means for the cause he’s to follow.

—

Trapped in an elevator with a bunch of unconscious assholes who just tried to kill him. Yeah, this is just where Bucky wants to be.

Lucky he’s gotta move before more agents find him.

Prying the doors apart on the higher level, Bucky gets ready to worm his way out only to find agents already storming the corridor, of course. He wastes no time shutting it again, ignoring the little voice in his head that’s telling him he’s going to have no way out. There’s always something, even if he has to climb down.

Trouble is, that’s gonna take too long, and Bucky’s not sure his enhancements are enough to let him survive that sort of drop if he falls.

His grip tightens on the shield, and he knows if worst comes to worst he can fight his way out, but that’s a lot of agents and the longer he takes the higher the chance is that he’s going to get caught.

Taking a deep breath, Bucky pries the doors at the bottom of the elevator open instead, and obviously the agents haven’t gotten here yet, still focusing on the upper floors, like Bucky’s stupid enough to try and do anything but get the hell away from this place.

Slipping out of the elevator carefully, Bucky hurries down the hallway, shield ready in his hand, fingers hovering by the firearm strapped to his side just in case.

One way or another, he’s getting out.

—

If there’s anyone Bucky’s worked with so far that he feels least out of place with, it’s Natasha.

Which is why this feels so out of place, holding her still in a goddamn hospital room and trying to demand answers from her. She’s hiding something, though, and Bucky knows it. He watched Steve try and lie for too long to not be able to catch it now, even on someone as careful as Natasha.

“Who is he, Romanoff. I know you’re hiding it from me.”

Natasha doesn’t usually have many tells, but this one is staring him in the face, her jaw setting stern as she decides whether or not it’s worth telling him the truth for once.

“Most people don’t believe he exists; the one that do call him the Winter Soldier. He’s a ghost, James.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“He shot me. I was escorting an engineer out of Ukraine, but— he was there. He shot out our tyres near Odessa, and I was covering my engineer, so he shot him— straight through me.”

Sounds about as ruthless as whoever put countless holes in Bucky’s wall, and Fury’s chest.

“You can’t find him— I know, I’ve tried. The guy’s a ghost story, Barnes.”

Natasha holds up the drive, like some sort of truce signal, and— hey, Bucky’s running low on people he can count on, he’s not about to throw this out the window when he needs all the help he can get right now. Snagging the drive from her, Bucky slips it into his pocket and drops his hands, shuffling back to give her some room to move.

“Got me this time, Romanoff.”

They both manage a small smile, some of the tension diffusing around them.

“Oh great, what a huge comfort.”

—

This is why Bucky hates undercover work. And it’s no better when they’re on the run and STRIKE will be closing in on them at any goddamn moment

And yet, somehow, Natasha keeps her cool, like everything’s just fine. Like they don’t have about two minutes until they’re under arrest.

And like some tech wanders over to them with a smile that is way too big to be genuine, and the last thing Bucky really feels like doing is talking to him, and yet—

“Can I help you guys with anything?”

“Oh, no thanks, my fiance and I are just looking for some honeymoon destinations—“

Jesus Christ, Romanoff—

“Right, we just can’t find the right place—“

Bucky shuffles in front of Natasha, making a show of holding her hand and smiling as naturally as he can manage, alarm bells going off and he is going to kill her for this—

“Where were you thinking?”

“Uh—“

The map on the Macbook flashes, coming up with a location and Bucky can’t believe his terrible luck.

“New Jersey, y’know— nice, this time of year—“

Even Bucky doesn’t believe that one, and yet—

“Nice— well, if you need anything, I’ve been Aaron—“

Who are you now, then—

“Thanks, we appreciate that—“

An alert sounds from the Macbook and Bucky makes an effort not to turn too quickly, but even he can’t hide the surprise on his face when he sees the location Natasha’s pinpointed for the drive.

“What, you know it?”

“No— not personally. I used to know someone who did, though.”

They waste all of half a second staring at the coordinates before Natasha pulls the drive free, the two of them navigating out of the store, but they both know they’ve lingered a little too long.

STRIKE like to think they blend in, but Bucky knows better, after working with them the way he has. Sure, people won’t notice them at first glance, but they’re a little too rigid, too tense and alert to look like normal people.

Still, there’s too many of them to steer clear for too long, and Bucky knows they can’t fight them off without getting hurt, or getting caught.

“Here—“

Natasha tugs his arm around her shoulders and ducks her head, and Bucky manages a slight grin before following suit, letting out what he hopes is a decent laugh as they cruise right on by the two agents approaching, and— god, it works, thank god.

Though, Bucky can’t be too surprised. It’s how he and Steve got by in public— act like everyone else, and no one bothers to look at you.

“We gotta get out of here—“

“Cool it, Barnes, we’re getting there.”

They shuffle onto an escalator, and it looks like they’re clear until the spot Brock on the other side, heading up to the floors above, and there’s no way he’s gonna miss them, not this close and not when they’ve been working so closely for so long—

“Really hoping you’re not as gay as Sharon thinks you are—“

Before Bucky knows what’s going on, Natasha’s pulling him in for a kiss and Bucky’s struck by the pure shock of it, it has to be a trick of some form—

When she pulls away and turns around, business as always, Brock’s gone past, leaving them free to disappear.

Assuming Bucky can get his brain to wake up by the time they reach the bottom of the escalator.

—

The Soldier rarely spends so much time out of stasis. His jobs don’t last long enough for this sort of time, this sort of freedom— he can’t leave the safe house, and has no reason to, but the ability to stand, walk, move around as he sees fit, relax if he so chooses— it’s rare, and the Soldier is definitely not used to it.

On top of that, he’s not used to his handlers being so careless with him, speaking off the fallout of the mission, the methods he used and the results they produced. The processes are simple; come out of stasis, receive his mental rebuilding programs, and complete the mission he’s given.

This, though— this is strange. They’re giving him time to think, to process the mission he completed, the effect it had.

The addition of the blood on his hands.

For reasons the Soldier can’t understand, that makes him uneasy. There are layers of blood on his hands, a multitude of death he’s responsible for, and not once has it affected him. It’s not his position to be affected by this, it’s what he’s for.

And yet, he can feel it now. Growing stronger by the minute, just a little. And he can’t help but wonder why.Just what is it that has squirmed into his mind that’s making him feel some vague sort of remorse, for once.

—

It’s been a while since Bucky stole anything as big as a car, but for some reason it hadn’t felt all that strange.

“Pick that up during the war?”

“You’d be surprised what you need to know when it comes to Nazi Germany. Besides, we’re taking it back.”

Sometimes, Bucky’s surprised at how much of Steve rubbed off on him.

“I got a question for you, though.”

“Oh, that’s a serious tone—“

“C’mon, quit it— how’d you know?”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, as though she doesn’t know what he could possibly be talking about, but Bucky knows better than that by now. She’s good at putting up an act, but he can see through it.

“About me.”

“Sharon figured it out, actually. She's been watching you for a while, and you never made a move on her.”

“So what? Maybe she’s just not my type.”

“She’s definitely not your type, James.”

Bucky can’t help but laugh. She’s definitely got that one right, at least.

“You know, it could make a big difference. Captain America, coming out—“

“I don’t— think so.”

“Why—“

“Because it was never about being anything, it— it was. Always about him.”

The words feel strange coming out of his mouth. Bucky’s never spoken to— anyone about this, he’s never had a chance. They couldn’t tell anyone, couldn’t let on that anything was going on, not when they both knew how much was at risk.

And maybe it’s not at risk anymore, but— it’s still theirs. Even if Steve’s not here to share that anymore.

—

Bucky’s never been to Camp Lehigh, but Steve told him all about it, back in the day. The camp where he trained, where he pushed through every straining breath and every ache and pain to prove himself, hoping to god he could be what Erskine obviously thought he was.

Everything Bucky knew he was.

“I don’t understand, how can the coordinates lead here—“

Natasha seems confused, but she really has no idea where this is going. As much as she knows, she wasn’t there, seventy years ago.

They find a way inside and look around, and Bucky can almost see Steve running through drills on the grounds, he can see where they would’ve done laps, where Steve would’ve struggled like hell to get through a push-up without falling.

“Barnes— there’s nothing here.”

Her voice startles Bucky back to reality, turning to see her scanning their surroundings, and she doesn’t doubt that there’s nothing up here, except—

“There—“

Furrowing his eyebrows in confusion, Bucky strides past her, making his way towards the one building that’s out of place.

“That— that shouldn’t be there, it’s against regs—“

Jesus, it’s been a long time since Bucky had to recall his army regulations, but when some things are drilled into your head, you can’t help but remember them.

“Munitions can’t be stored within 500 miles of the barracks.”

The padlock on the door looks old, and it only takes a couple of hits from his shield for Bucky to snap it off before hauling the door open and heading down.

And of course, there’s a SHIELD logo right on the wall. Do these guys ever run out of secrets?

Bucky’s jaw tightens as he looks around, spotting photos on the wall of SHIELD’s founders. Howard, Dugan, and Peggy.

He’d seen her, a few weeks ago, and— well, sometimes she does good, sometimes she remembers everything and they still laugh over the country’s original Captain America falling over his own feet for no reason around base, but sometimes— sometimes, she doesn’t even remember he’s still alive.

Whatever they wanted SHIELD to be, Bucky feels like they’re about to find out why it all went so wrong.

—

Like all of this isn’t weird enough, but standing in the middle of Zola’s tech-brain is just ridiculous.

And it doesn’t help that he’s riling Bucky up, and Bucky knows it— and he hates that it’s working. The broken screen speaks volumes, really. The one he’d smashed when Zola tried telling him Steve sacrificed himself for a fight Bucky couldn’t finish.

Not only that, Bucky’s mind is reeling from the idea that Hydra’s got primary control over SHIELD and they’re planning something with whatever was on that boat in the middle of the damn ocean that Bucky’d been so sure he was saving for the right reasons.

Creepy-computer-Zola is still chatting away, but Bucky can’t help but feel like something’s off, waiting for some sort of ambush. Maybe there’s guards waiting behind all the equipment, maybe—

“James, we’ve got a problem—“

Natasha’s phone is beeping frantically at them; never a good sign, really.

“I’m afraid I’ve been stalling—“

Damnit, this little weasel was always a pain—

The door slides shut before either of them realise, and Natasha’s starting to look panicked.

“We’ve got a bogey, short-range ballistic—“

“From who?”

“…SHIELD.”

Shit. Shit.

Bucky heads for a grate on the floor, knowing it’s a long-shot but it’s better than nothing, and he’s just pulling it out of the way when Natasha hurries over with the drive in her hands, and they’ve got seconds. She jumps in first and Bucky follows suit just as the missile hits, everything coming down on top of them and all Bucky can think is that he has to hold this up, he has to.

—

He keeps to the shadows as much as possible, always wary of the possibility of being sighted. This house is mostly empty besides the man who carefully outlines his orders, but the Soldier knows the cost of being sighted, and he needs to be careful.

Even as the owner of this particular house enters - and the Soldier doesn’t know his name, it’s not necessary - he knows not to move, knows to await orders, receive whatever information he’s been summoned here to receive.

“Two targets. High threat level. They cannot be allowed to interfere.”

The Soldier has heard this spiel before, he knows what it means. He knows of the cause these men fight for, how they are looking to shape the future, and the position he holds in it.

Two targets are no real threat, not to the Soldier. There seem to be no limitations, no conditions, nothing beyond the requirement to eliminate these targets before they have the chance to sabotage anything relevant to the cause.

—

Sam’s place wasn’t hard to find, but Bucky has to force himself to approach, already feeling guilty as hell for imposing like this when they’re not even there yet.

They haven’t got anywhere else to go, though, and Bucky can tell Natasha needs a couple of hours to try and recharge. They both do, really.

Everything seems quiet enough when they knock on Sam’s door, and Bucky tries to make himself look as normal as possible when Sam answers, surprise taking over his features at the sight of them.

No doubt they’re a bit of a state.

“Thought I’d— skip the run, this morning.”

“No kidding.”

“Look—“

Bucky clears his throat, wishing he was better at asking for help than this.

“C’mon in, you look like you need it.”

Bucky’s never been so glad that people like Sam still exist in the world.

—

The agent in the vehicle is disposable, nothing has told the Soldier otherwise. There are plenty to take his place, and this will be much easier to execute without having to get him to safety.

Taking the leap, the Soldier lands on the car and reaches to wrench the agent out through the window, tossing him out of the way and reaching for a gun in one smooth, easy motion. There’s already movement in the car, he can hear it, so he doesn’t waste time to take his shots, and he’s so close except one of them is goddamn fast.

Not to mention they’re smart enough to hit the breaks, and the Soldier barely catches himself, rolling into a crouch, getting his balance before straightening up again.

Everything moves fast from there; his backup rams the target’s car, forcing it in the Soldier’s direction and he takes care to leap onto it’s hood before impact, breaking through the windscreen and tearing the steering wheel out of the man’s hands; and he has no time to wonder just who the hell he is, besides knowing he’s an accomplice of the targets.

The soldier will need to deal with him, too.

—

It’s not the man that strikes something in the Soldier’s memories, but the shield, the circle of red, white, and blue, the blinding star in the middle. The symbol for a man he has been told time and time again is a danger, an enemy.

They’ve sent him to kill Captain America.

He does not hold back, he doesn’t know how to, throwing strike after strike and landing plenty. But this man is strong, he’s fast, and he’s stubborn, fighting back as hard as he can, and he certainly knows what he’s doing. No doubt he’s been trained by someone exceptional, if he’s able to hold his own against the soldier.

He won’t lose, though. He’s already as good as killed the girl, and this man— he will be next.

The Soldier pushes, his attacks more brutal, and it’s obvious in the sounds that come from his arm, the intense whirring and spinning as the machinery keeps up with his intentions, with his attacks and his movements, but it’s never let him down before, and this is no exception.

There are some close calls, but— this man is frustratingly good, and it takes a split second of luck and good tactics to flip the Soldier off his feet, the mask slipping from it’s position on his face and falling to the ground as he pushes himself up again.

And it’s the first time a target has seen his face exposed, but— something happens. Something changes, and for the first time, the Soldier hears the man’s voice.

“Steve?”

“Who the hell is Steve?”

The Soldier’s never heard that name before, why would anyone refer to him with it?

And even more absurd; why does he recognise that voice?

The Soldier begins to move but something strikes his back, throwing him off balance and sending him into a roll to regain his footing, and the distraction gives him moments of clarity he’s never known before, precious few moments where nothing is covered by the haze of orders, of crackling electricity and screaming, where he can see this man in front of him in a wide open space, standing in a uniform, smiling at him like they know each other, like they mean something to each other and the Soldier doesn’t know what this is, he doesn’t understand—

He panics, moves to take the open shot at the man who is still staring at him so hopelessly, but a grenade flies past him, barely missing and striking the car behind him instead, and the Soldier does what he knows to do— he runs, disappears before he can let himself become any more vulnerable.

—

There’s helicopters overhead, there’s a goddamn gun pointed at his head, and all Bucky can think about is Steve.

And it was him, he knows it was, he wouldn’t forget that face, not even if he slept through another seven decades. He can feel his heart tearing into pieces as he hears Steve’s voice, blank and emotionless.

Who the hell is Steve?

He didn’t even know himself, let alone Bucky.

STRIKE herd them into the back of a vehicle, taking care to secure Bucky first like he’s the biggest threat, like he even has it in him to fight right now with Steve’s voice echoing in his head over and over, and he barely even notices when they’re on the move.

“It was him.”

“Bucky—“

“No, Sam. It was him, he— looked right at me, like he didn’t even know me—“

“Was that— what, the serum?”

“Yeah, it— must’ve saved him, I— god, I should’ve—“

“It’s not your fault, James—“

Natasha sounds faint, and she’s losing blood fast. Sam points it out to the guards, that they’ve gotta do something about it before she bleeds out, but Bucky has little hope of them listening.

One of them reacts, moving to threaten Sam for a moment before striking at the other guard instead, knocking them out and tugging their headgear off carefully.

“Man, that thing was squeezing my brain—“

Hill? What the hell is she doing here—

Questions can wait, they’ll have to, because Hill means business, she always does. And if she’s here, it means they’re getting out.

—

He’s expecting to be pushed into the tube for stasis the moment he arrives, but his arm had taken damage in the fight, and he’s forced to sit still, to wait for the repairs to be completed.

And this sort of work always takes it’s toll, not in any physical form, but because with each motion the engineers make, the Soldier remembers more and more of the process that gave him this arm. The brutal cutting and hacking, the crude methods used to adjust his body for this new appendage he never knew he’d asked for.

And that— that’s what really hurts, what sends spikes of pain through what is left of his shoulder, twinges prickling over his skin that are unbearable, and he can hear voices echoing over and over about his cause, about what it is he is to fight for, about all Hydra stand for, the words going through his mind over and over—

One of the men flies across the room, and the Soldier can only assume by the way his breathing is suddenly much more laboured, and by the way the others are backing away, that he is responsible for it.

Footsteps approach, familiar sounds of a man he has met numerous times before. A man whose home in which he had awaited his most recent orders, and before he knows it the man is before him, settling on a chair and giving him an order.

“Mission report.”

Routine as always, the Soldier is to give a report, to explain the situation, give enough information to outline a future strategy. But all he can see is the man on the bridge, hear his voice, and that shield is always there in his mind, always haunting him like it means something to him—

The strike to his face is a shock, but he doesn’t react, barely feeling the sting of it.

“Mission report.”

He has to ask. This is the first— the only thing the Soldier has found that wasn’t put in his mind. He needs to know.

“The man on the bridge— who was he?”

Hesitation. The Soldier has seen that before.

“You met him on an earlier assignment.”

“I knew him.”

The Soldier knew him, knew his face, knew his voice. That moment, he knew him. Not as a target, but as a person.

The man before him begins to explain; not who the man on the bridge was, or why the Soldier might know him, but about the cause, about why he is needed to complete this mission. Why this is all that’s important.

The man on the bridge, though— Captain America. Who he is is important to the Soldier, now.

“But I knew him.”

He can’t let it go— he can’t, not when he’s never known anything before this, nothing he wasn’t told, nothing the electric crackling and painful shots of energy through his head didn’t tell him to know. This is real, and it’s his, and he doesn’t know what that means but he has to find out—

“Prep him.”

No—

The Soldier sits still— he knows better than to fight. But something breaks in his mind, letting free a voice that says no, no no no—

“He’s been out of cryostasis for too long—“

“Then wipe him. Start over.”

More white-hot crackling, more screaming, that is all that’s waiting for him, and as much as the Soldier knows it will hurt, as much as he wants to fight— he can’t.

All he can do is let them push him down, restraints keeping him in place as they always do, and wait for the pain to begin.

Wait for them to make him forget, to tell him what it should know. What he should remember, for their cause.

—

if anyone was gonna fake his own death so convincingly, it’s Nick Fury.

Though, that seems to be pretty common, lately.

Bucky’s still not sure he can wrap his head around all of this, watching Fury explain the plan, show them the chips, give them the details about the helicarriers and what it could mean for them. How it could give them a chance to save SHIELD.

Not a chance.

“No way. We’re not salvaging that mess, Nick.”

“Excuse me?”

“How many people got hurt in the middle of all of this? How many people are paying with their lives?”

“Look— Barnes, I didn’t know about this—“

“Spare me, Nick. Enough secrets. We’re doing this right.”

They’re doing it the way Steve would want it done. That’s what Bucky’s based all of this on ever since he put that uniform on to begin with, and— no matter what he’s found, no matter what Steve’s being made to do, no matter where they’ve locked him away in his own head, Bucky’s still going to do it this way. He always will.

Whether anyone else likes it or not.

—

Bucky never understood why they kept his old uniform in the Smithsonian— he’d tried to get it taken away, tried to tell them to keep the spotlight on Steve’s suit, on his fight that lasted years, but they still won’t listen.

He’s not giving them much of a choice now, though. It’s the only one he’s got access to, and he needs some sort of protection if he’s going to take on this fight.

Besides, maybe if he’s wearing the uniform that always meant so much to Steve, it’ll reach him. Just maybe, Bucky can get him back.

—

The Soldier has very explicit instructions. Eliminate the targets aiming to take down the helicarriers. Ensure those carriers stay in the air, where they can do what they have been made to do.

Where they can be used as the ultimate weapons for Hydra’s cause.

The pilots are making their way to their jets, they’re not looking for a threat, not expecting the grenade launched at one of their aircrafts that takes it down before they can even reach it. The surprise works to his advantage, it always does, and the Soldier doesn’t waste it, taking them out one by one and taking a jet for himself. This is one mission he won’t fail.

He can’t afford that. Not again. He may not recall just what it was that put him through his last treatment, but— that’s a pain he’s not willing to face again.

—

They’re two helicarriers down, and there’s no sight of Steve yet.

Bucky’s both heartbroken and relieved at that. He doesn’t know just how he’d handle fighting Steve to whatever end was waiting for them, but— he wanted one more chance. One more shot at reaching him, at finding the Steve he knows.

He has a job to do, first, and he’s not about to let all these people down. He’s not about to let Steve down, the one he knows. The one he’s loved since he was fourteen years old. The one who would be fighting just as hard to stop this as quickly as possible, before a lot of people die.

Right now, he’s gotta focus on the hordes of Insight crew that are closing in on him, and how goddamn uncomfortably close their shots are getting.

“Hey Wilson!”

The coms are working loud and clear, and Sam doesn’t fail him, answering promptly, but he sounds like he’s got his hands full, too.

Bucky’s just gonna have to work on a hell of a lot of hope.

“Think you could give me a lift?”

“Just say when—“

“That was your cue, buddy—“

Before he can change his mind, Bucky leaps off the edge of the helicarrier— hell, he already regrets it, but he puts faith in Wilson anyway. The guy hasn’t let him down yet, which is more than he can say for a hell of a lot of people he’s met since he came out of the ice.

Twisting as best as he can, Bucky tries to make this as easy for Wilson as possible, preparing himself for the painful tug he should expect when Wilson grabs him. And he’s not disappointed, Wilson taking a surprisingly tight hold of his hand and halting his quick descent, hauling him up to the last helicarrier.

“You gotta give more warning than that, y’know.”

Sam grunts a little as they land, wasting no time as they head along the deck of the helicarrier, and Bucky almost laughs.

“Least I did give you warning, Wilson.”

He’s sure Sam could think of something more amusing to come back with, but everything changes in a heartbeat when Steve comes right at them, kicking Bucky square in the chest and Jesus he almost forgot how strong Steve is, undoubtedly bruising his chest pretty badly, and before Bucky knows it he’s flying over the edge of the helicarrier.

He’s just lucky he manages to get a hold of a ledge before he can plummet into the water, and it almost pulls his damn arm out of it’s socket, but he just— just manages to hold on.

Thank god because his mind is running at a million miles an hour because Steve is here when Bucky’d been so sure he wouldn’t be, and he’s gotta move so he can get this job done and do something for Steve before it’s too late.

—

Steve was always too fast for his own good. And this time is no exception, when Bucky finds Steve standing in between him and the chips he needs to replace.

“I’m only doing what you would do, Steve.”

He doesn’t blink— he doesn’t even flinch, staring Bucky down like a challenge, like all that is consuming his mind is stopping Bucky. Stopping his enemy, and Bucky can’t quite comprehend the idea that the man whose ideals he is working off, living off, is standing before him. Threatening to stop him.

“Steve, please. I don’t wanna do this.”

And the worst part is, Bucky’s not sure he can win against Steve. After the serum, Steve always had more than one up on him. No one could get the better of him, and that’s what kept them on top throughout the war. That above all else, they had Steve.

And, slightly stronger or not, unable to age or not, Bucky’s not sure how long he can hold off Hydra’s hijacked supersoldier.

Hopefully, long enough to get that chip into place.

And Steve’s not budging, muscles already tense, and Bucky can tell he’s not going to step aside. Whatever they’ve done to him, it’s strong, strong enough for his own will, his strength, his faith, and his serum to fail to break through it all.

Bucky only hopes, after all this, he can find a way through.

—

The target is directly opposite him, wearing the uniform of one of his greatest enemies. Captain America. The man the Soldier is programmed to kill. It’s his one goal, the only pre-programmed aim he has is to end the life of this man, to prevent him from completing his goal. To ensure Hydra’s cause is fulfilled.

That’s all that matters. That’s what the Soldier keeps telling himself, that’s what he keeps his mind fixated on. The mission he needs to complete.

The Captain takes the first attack, launching the shield at the Soldier in an attempt at distraction, but it deflects easily off his arm and the Soldier moves faster than this man can, taking his shots and coming close to hitting his marks if not for that goddamn shield.

The Soldier doesn’t stop, though, pushing harder and harder, using all his training and his strength, pushing his arm to it’s limits, focusing on nothing but the goal, the aim.

Anything that keeps him from listening to the voice in his head that’s telling him to stop all of this, stop fighting, stop attacking, stop trying to kill the man and find out why he feels like he knows him.

He can’t, though, it’s not possible. He won’t let this get in the way of his mission.

The man disarms him, fast and almost taking the Soldier by surprise, but he has enough time to get his hands on one of his knives, renewing his assault and locking the man in a vicious grip, holding him against the railing. And he resists, of course he does, but the Soldier is stronger, and his arm whirrs, machinery pushing that little bit harder and thrusting the knife straight into the Captain’s shoulder.

The man doesn’t relent, though, persistent to the end, knocking the Soldier out of the way and striking back, and he’s good at fighting dirty, taking shots wherever he can and making them count; something the Soldier isn’t used to. His strikes are all calculated, all careful and backed with extreme force.

But this man, the Captain; he fights downright dirty, and the Soldier can’t help but be caught off-guard.

The Soldier’s not about to lose, though, he can’t, he knows what’s awaiting him if he fails— he takes a tight grip on his wrist and squeezing hard, hard enough for him to let go of the item in his hand and letting it fall over the railing, enough to delay him for a time— until he throws both of them over the railing after it.

And the Soldier almost growls, almost, because he is not going to lose, not to this man. No matter what it takes.

—

Bucky’s wearing down fast, and he’s not sure how much he’s got left in him, not when every hit he lands causes Steve visible pain, and not when every hit he has to block is aimed to fatally injure him and he knows it.

He has to keep going, though. He has to get that chip back, get it into place. Save all those people, and then save Steve.

Swiping the chip up before he can lose it again, Bucky turns to find Steve coming right at him, launching a hit at him that Bucky barely has time to block and it’s vicious, intended to take him down just like every other attack, and it’s all Bucky can do for a few moments to block the worst of his attacks, but he knows how to fight dirty and no matter what they’ve stuck in his head, that’s one instinct Steve’s never had.

So when he knocks the chip out of Bucky’s hand again, he doesn’t resist the instinct to tackle Steve off the ledge and down onto the glass floor below them, all that’s standing between them and the water below.

Steve gets to the chip first, though, and Bucky launches himself at him, grabbing his arm and pulling hard, trying to get him to let go, just to drop the damn chip so Bucky can get this job done, so he can do what he’s here to do.

Steve doesn’t stop, though, pulling and fidgeting and fighting and it kills Bucky to tug that little harder, hearing the brutal clunk of Steve’s shoulder dislocating, and the wild scream Steve lets out in response

He has to do it, though, and the painful reminder that all of this is what Steve would do is all that keeps him there, all that makes him pin Steve down and hook his arm around Steve’s throat, wrenching the metal arm under his leg to keep it out of the way, keep it from getting the better of him because that thing is damn strong and that’s only made worse by the serum still pushing him harder and harder.

Bucky knows exactly how long it takes for Steve to pass out from pressure on his carotid, and he’s counting down the seconds that are just dragging on and on, hoping to god it’s soon because this is killing him, tearing away at him like nothing ever has. That he has no choice but to hurt the one person he’s always wanted to protect. 

And it takes some time, more than Bucky would have liked, but Steve finally stops, falling limp, and the chip drops from his hand and onto the floor. Bucky almost sighs in relief, but he hardly even has time for that, swiping it and making his way back to the ledge they’d landed on earlier, already trying to figure out how to get up there and swap the chips in time.

God, he hopes he can make it. Hopes he can save all these people just like Steve would want, and then save Steve from whatever nightmare they’ve planted in his head.

—

Everything’s foggy when the Soldier regains consciousness, and his initial instinct is that he’s coming out of stasis again— but something feels wrong, His body aches, his right arm is throbbing like hell, his left arm is creaking and whirring in a way he's not used to, and there’s an unnatural amount of noise around him that doesn’t fit—

Captain America, where is he—

Dragging himself to his feet, he manages to snag one of his firearms he’d lost grip on earlier, glancing around until his eyes lock onto the climbing figure above; the Captain trying to get to the control panel, to the chips. Lining up the shot, the Soldier wastes no time— but something in his mind asks why, that awful voice in his head that makes everything go wrong, and what should’ve been a killshot goes off-course, a bullet burying into the man’s thigh.

He falters, just for a moment, but presses on, and the Soldier growls in frustration, taking a few extra seconds to line up another shot as the man climbs back up to the walkway, but this one misses, too, and he has to shake his head because he’s seeing things that aren’t there, things that aren’t real and make no sense and he can’t let the mess locked away in his head get in the way, no matter how hard it’s all fighting to break free.

He has a mission, first and foremost. He needs to complete it.

Taking a breath, the Soldier lines up another shot, careful, taking his time, feeling for the right moment, making sure he doesn’t miss, he can’t miss—

The bullet hits home, burying deep into the man’s abdomen, and he falters. He makes it to the chips, but he falls before he can reach them, and the Soldier feels an unexpected rush of relief.

He knew what was waiting for him, if he failed this mission. It wasn’t an option, if he wanted to survive.

—

Pain, so much pain, and Bucky can’t quite wrap his head around it all let alone the fact that it was Steve who shot him to begin with, Steve who did this—

No, it’s not him—

The chips are there, they’re right there, and Bucky can almost hear Steve’s voice in his head, the old Steve, his Steve, laughing, telling him to get up, not letting Bucky get a moment’s rest like he never used to when he wanted to do something, go somewhere, anything.

He can hear Steve yelling for him, as he fell from that train, and it makes every jolt of pain worse— but it works.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Bucky hauls himself up, chip in hand, barely managing to wrench the right chip out of the board above him. He manages it though, and he can hear Hill counting down in his ear, he’s got seconds—

The replacement chip clicks into place, and Bucky’s whole body sags with relief, dropping down to the floor again. He did it, finally.

“You know what to do, Hill—“

“Bucky—“

“Do it!”

It’s not some stupid self-sacrifice, it’s logic— Bucky’s got no way out, Sam’s grounded, and there’s no pilots in the air for him. This is it, and they’ve still got a job to do.

Maria knows it, too, because it’s all of a second before the three helicarriers start firing— at each other. Bullets and grenades and missiles, god knows what else they had on these damn things, launching at each other, bringing it down one lethal weapon at a time.

They did it.

Now, he needs to save Steve.

—

The Soldier’s gotta move, he needs to find a way out of here, get to safety, reach a safe house. The Captain is as good as dead, the mission is complete, he needs to escape—

Debris is falling from everywhere, damaged caused by the shots fired, and before the Soldier can get out of his way he finds himself knocked down by some of the falling scrap, pinning him down before he can get away and he lets out a yell of frustration more than anything. His left arm is all he’s got left, the right still throbbing painfully and practically useless, so he tries to drag himself out of the mess, groaning the whole way—

The debris moves, shifting off him, and the Soldier catches sight of the telltale red, white, and blue before he drags himself out, practically growling at the sight. He’s meant to be dead, bleeding out while the carrier falls apart, the Soldier shot him.

“It’s me, Steve— you’ve known me since we were kids—“

Splinters of memories flash in his mind, all gravitating around that voice, around how familiar it is and he doesn’t understand. The Soldier lashes out with an enraged yell, striking him hard and he blocks with the shield— but only just.

“Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America. That’s you— this is you—“

He hits again, and again, knocking the man off his feet over and over and every movement sends jolts of pain radiating through his body but he can’t bring himself to stop, not until it’s done.

“That’s not my name—“

Another hit, the Captain falls yet again, but— he keeps getting up, why is he getting up— he pushes his cowl back, revealing his face and the Soldier can see it, a younger version, smirking at him without a care in the world and he doesn’t know where it’s come from, doesn’t know what it is, whose memory it is or why this man means anything to him—

“I won’t fight you, Steve— I can’t, I promised I’d protect you, I love you—“

Yelling out, the Soldier launches himself at the man, both of them flying off their feet and landing dangerously close to a ledge, almost plummeting to their deaths, and the Soldier will— he has to make the most of these few moments to end this.

“You’re my mission—“

He hits, again and again, trying to break the image of the man picking up a small, blonde guy with a bloody nose off the ground, shatter the image of the man in an apartment, standing at a stove with a spatula in hand, tear apart the picture of the man smiling at him like he means anything, like he could ever mean anything—

“Do it, then—“

The words are barely even words, broken and mumbled through swollen lips, but they reach him anyway—

“—Because I’m still with you, till the end of the line.”

Everything shatters, flying apart in shards and the Soldier doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what any of it means because suddenly he can see this man standing in front of him, smiling and setting his hands on his shoulders and saying those exact words, and he doesn’t know what this disaster in his head is telling him besides that it’s the first real thought he’s had in— how long—

The supporting structure beneath them breaks, plummeting, and the Soldier barely gets a grip on what mangled metal is left, but— the Captain— Bucky, why does that name hit him so hard— falls fast, barely conscious and who knows how close to death, and that— that horrifies him, why—

It’s probably a mistake, everything he’s known for as long as he knows tells him to stop—

He lets go, falling after him, aiming for a dive and barely managing it. But he grits his teeth, ignores the wrenching agony in his shoulder, and reaches to grab the man by the scruff of his uniform.

And he doesn’t know why, not really, he doesn’t know why he should be doing this, what conceivable good it could cause to save this man’s life, but— he feels it’s right, and he can’t recall the last time he felt something. It’s important, it has to be, somehow.

Dragging the man’s limp body out of the water, the Soldier watches him carefully, waiting for movement.

He groans, blinks briefly and then he’s out again. But it’s enough.

They’ll find him— he’s not working alone, and his team will be looking— so the Soldier doesn’t wait. The man’s alive.

It’s time to go.

 


	6. When Two Worlds Collide

Considering Bucky wasn’t expecting to wake up, he’s a little surprised to hear a distant, steady beeping. He can’t quite locate it yet, but it’s there, it’s constant, and it’s a little familiar, something he’s heard before.

The light hurts against his eyes, but he’s gotta see where he is at least, find out what that annoying beeping is, and it takes him a couple of tries but he finally manages to pry his eyes open enough to distinguish a hospital room.

Great, his favourite place.

Looking around carefully, Bucky notices Sam settled in a chair by his bed, reading something and trying to act casual, but he looks like sleep has escaped him for a few days.

Poor guy.

“Should’ve taught you that field medic training, huh—”

Talking hurts like hell, but it’s worth it.

—

He’s not sure how he ended up here. He’s not even sure he recognises it.

The small apartment is deserted. All he finds is some tins of food in the kitchen, some spare clothes and a little cash in the stuffy bedroom, a first aid kit in the bathroom, and an emergency pack of various weapons, ammunition, and clothing in a duffle bag under the bed. He can’t stay here for long, not if he’d like to avoid being found, but— a few days, maybe.

Long enough to try and stop the flashes of images in his head that he can’t make sense of. Images he doesn’t understand, ones that he knows and he doesn’t— know why.

Ones where he can see that man’s face over and over, in a back alley picking some kid off the floor— walking through the door with dirt all over his grinning face— standing in the middle of a small kitchen cooking pancakes and smiling at him—

Shaking his head, he groans and drops onto the creaky bed, gripping his head in his left hand, his right shoulder still throbbing painfully. On top of all of this, he can see the man laying on the riverbankd, only just breathing, soaking wet and unconscious but alive.

And he doesn’t even know why he did it, why he went out of his way to save him, but— he’s glad he did, and he’s not even sure why.

He’s gotta find out, though. Because every damn question he has in his head seems to lead back to this guy. And he needs to know why.

—

It doesn’t get any weirder than someone staring at their own grave, as far as Bucky’s concerned. Except maybe staring at his own. He’d know, he’s done it before with his. And it never gets any less weird.

Fury wanders off, probably set on getting straight to work and leaving Bucky and Sam behind, but his attention is drawn elsewhere. Natasha’s on her way over, a file in her hand and a small, surprisingly honest smile on her face.

Must be hard to play an act, when all those acts are exposed.

“Y’think he’d take this as a chance to retire?”

Bucky jerks his head over in Fury’s direction as he walks away, and Natasha grins.

“You don’t know him very well, do you.”

“Apparently not.”

“You’ll learn. Here—“

Holding the file out for Bucky, her voice turns a little sombre and serious, her smile fading, and Bucky can only imagine what’s in there. He needs it, though; he’s gotta chase Steve down, he can’t leave him behind like that. Not when Steve needs him, not when Steve saved him.

“You owe me for this one, Barnes. I pulled some big favours for this file.”

“You can collect whenever you want, Romanoff.”

He wants to open it, start combing through it, but he waits. There’s no telling what’s inside, and Bucky’s not sure how well he’s going to handle seeing it.

“Not gonna go chase down Hydra goons, then?”

Natasha laughs, shaking her head, and Bucky can’t help but be a little surprised. No doubt Fury would be the best at picking up new aliases, if he ever needed one.

“Gotta figure out who I am now, right? Besides, he talks too much on plane rides.”

“Makes sense, then— Hey—“

Bucky holds out his hand, always at least a little bit of a gentleman, but Natasha surprises him, taking his hand and leaning up to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Be careful, Barnes. You might not like where that leads you.”

He could make a joke, but it’s not the time, not the place. Instead, Bucky just smiles and nods, watching her wander off to do god knows what, but he’s sure he’ll see her some time soon.

They’re kind of on the same team, after all.

“So— going after him, right?”

Sam sounds a little amused, and it’s not really a question, not when they both know the answer. Still, Bucky nods again, eyes wandering down to the file again.

“You don’t have to come with me, Sam.”

“Who else is going to keep your ass safe?”

Bucky can’t help but chuckle because, really— he’s got a point, there.

—

Setting his shoulder was more of a shock than anything. He’s still trying not to use it, making the most of his left arm, though— it’s not in great shape, either.

Still, pulling the hood up on his jacket and keeping his head down, he manages to make his way into the Smithsonian without anyone noticing he’s got two injured arms, waiting in the line and avoiding everyone’s eyes as he heads slowly towards the Captain America exhibit.

And he’s still not sure what he’s doing here, but every time he closes his eyes, he sees that damn star on the shield, the red, white, and blue flashing before his eyes until he’s not sure if it’s an ally or enemy. Maybe here, he can find some answers.

Maybe, he’ll find out if he’s this— Steve the man in his memories insisted he was.

The exhibit is busy, but— he’s got enough of a hold on his head right now, enough to keep himself calm, to focus on the overhead voice talking through the exhibit, and he follows it’s direction, not really sure where else to go, and—

Before he knows it, he’s staring at himself.

Well— a smaller version, and he’s not quite sure why this sort of image exists, why he would possibly be altered like this, but just when his confusion gets unbearable the images hit, flashing through his mind, a smaller version of himself smiling, laughing, curling up in that man’s arms—

Shaking his head, he moves on, glancing at comparisons of— the beginning, the smaller man, and the bigger man, the one he was, before— whatever landed him like this.

Both are headed with a name. One he’d heard before, on the helicarrier. On the bridge— the name that started all of this.

Steve. Steve Rogers, to be exact. Is that him?

It can’t be. The more he wanders around, the more he can’t believe it. Not with the blood he has on his hands. Not with the pain and agony and and misery he’s caused. Not with the lives he’s taken.

His left hand clenches into a fist in his pocket as he approaches the last display dedicated to— whoever looks a hell of a lot like him. It’s a crystal clear panel with careful scripture explaining this guy’s life, how he lived, how he died; falling from a train saving his best friend’s life.

The description is painfully familiar, like every flash of the accident he had, the one that cost him his arm, but— this time it’s different. Sharper around the edges, and— there’s a voice, fuzzy, in the back of his mind, but it’s getting clearer, and it’s him.

Shaking his head, Steve— why would he call himself that? He’s not that man, he can’t be— backs away from the display, taking care not to bump anyone as he turns around and finds his way out as quickly as possible.

—

This file is driving Bucky insane. The longer he looks at it, the worse it seems.

They’ve chased every lead in the country, it feels like, and they’re still no closer to finding Steve. Every time they hit another dead end, they have to start over, and Bucky hates it.

He couldn’t stay in DC, not after that mess. He and Sam had set up base in New York; Bucky got his hands on an apartment where he and Steve always wanted to live, if they ever made it home.

So far, all it’s done is make him miss Steve all the more.

And it doesn’t help when he’s awake at two in the morning, reading over this damn file for what feels like the thousandth time because he can’t manage to get any sleep. He’s missing something, he knows he is, but he doesn’t know what it is, he just can’t find it—

“Bucky—“

The voice makes Bucky jump, already too on edge to handle surprised really well, but it’s familiar enough for him to calm down quick. Sam’s ben staying in the spare room while they’ve been searching. And he’s been a godsend, really, but sometimes— nothing helps.

Like when Bucky closes his eyes and sees Steve falling from that train, over and over.

“What the hell are you doing up, what—“

“Nothing— nothing, go back to sleep.”

“Yeah, sure—“

Sam steps over to pour himself a cup of coffee Bucky’s brewed when he came out, barely managing to stifle a yawn on the way.

“Gonna keep staring at that like it’s one of those visual illusions? Maybe if you squint a little, tilt your head to the side—”

“Very funny—“

Bucky can see his point, though. He’s been staring at these papers for what feels like a lifetime, and he’d be lying if he said his eyes don’t need a break.

“Pour me some of that coffee, yeah—“

“Get it yourself, Barnes—“

Rolling his eyes, Bucky pushes himself up from the table, snagging his mug on the way over to the coffee pot.

“Staring at that thing’s not gonna help.”

“Who said I’m—“

“I’ve seen it. Every night since you got your hands on it.”

Bucky shrugs a little as he pours his coffee. He’s not about to admit that he’s desperate for a lead, that he’d do anything to find even some hint of where Steve could be now. With Hydra all but in pieces, it’s getting harder and harder to figure out where he might be hiding.

And he knows Sam’s just trying to help, but— nothing’s helping. And nothing’s going to help, not until Bucky finds him.

“Well you can go back to sleep, I’m gonna keep staring for a little while.”

“C’mon, what’re you hoping to find like this—“

“I don’t know! I don’t—“

Bucky doesn’t mean to snap, and he knows he should but it just— happens before he knows it, and he can’t take it back now, no matter how much he regrets it.

And really, Sam has every right to walk out on him, if he really wanted to. Bucky knows he’s been grouchy, impossible, borderline horrible for at least a week now— but the guy stays, and Bucky’s not sure why.

“You’re tired, and you’re frustrated, and you wanna find your friend. But torturing yourself is not the way to do it, Bucky. You gotta keep yourself going if you wanna find him.”

He’s right— damnit, he’s right. He was right when he told Bucky they couldn’t fly to Russia without some kind of lead first, he was right when he kept Bucky from walking into a trap set by whatever sad little Hydra goons were around. And he’s right, now, too.

“Go back to bed, get a few hours of sleep, and we’ll take a look in the morning.”

“Yeah—“

Rubbing at his eyes, it finally hits Bucky that he’s tired, not just physically drained, not just mentally exhausted but emotionally worn out, kind of desperate for it all to just— be over. To have Steve here, to have him safe, to finally be able to help him.

“Hey— thanks, Sam.”

“You’re gonna owe me pancakes in the morning.”

They share a laugh, just a small one, as they finish off their coffee and head back down the hall. Bucky could do this alone, if he had to— but he can’t help but be glad he’s not.

—

Steve - sometimes, he’s still not sure that’s his name. But he can hear it in his head, hear so many different voicing using it - can finally sleep, for more than twenty minutes at a time. It doesn’t do him much good, though.

It’s been two weeks, and he’s in his third safe house. This time, in New York. Getting there hadn’t be so easy, but— something told him to go. Something in his head, something he can’t quite understand.

And when he does fall asleep, it’s usually with a gun under his pillow, and a knife on the nightstand. There’s something telling him he’s being chased, like someone in the world is looking for him, and— he’s not sure he wants to be found.

Really, it would be fine, sleeping like that— but more often than not, he wakes up with a yell, with the gun in his hand, aiming at nothing. On edge, trained, honed in on a target that no longer exists. Cold and calculated, the way the Soldier’s always been.

This is no different, his mind racing as he shoots up in the rickety bed, gun pointed at the wall, chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. He’s not Steve— whoever Steve is, that’s not him. He’s the Soldier, waiting to take a shot he’s been ordered to take, knowing what the consequences will be if he doesn’t.

By the time he’s determined there’s no one in this small, abandoned apartment, his mind is sinking back into sanity - or, whatever passes for sanity for him these days. And he ends up curled up in a corner of the apartment, the gun on the floor beside him, clutching his head and repeating his name, his date of birth, his serial number, from before. Over and over, until his hands aren’t shaking, until the adrenaline wears off and he can feel the dull ache in his shoulder again.

And he can’t help but wonder desperately just how many more times this is going to happen. If it’s ever actually going to go away, or is this— it. Is this what he’s going to be cursed with forever, punishment for all the lives he took?

—

He should move, change safe houses. Steve knows it, it’s good protocol in this situation. And he can’t afford to be found like this, not when he still can’t sleep more than once a week. Not when he’s seeing flashes of two lives; one where a man in a star-spangled suit saved lives, and one where a shadow took them.

But this apartment feels— safe, and Steve doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know what it is that makes him settle here. He’s never been here for a hit, never been sent here on an assignment of any form. There’s nothing tying him to this place.

At least, that’s what he thinks. Until one night, Steve dreams— of Steve. Of before the war, before he became— whatever he is now. When he was small and sickly, when he was— normal.

And he doesn’t wake up this time, but— he sees flashes, mere minutes of different events— a birthday cake, small and modest, but full of love and care he’d put into it, careful iced words spelling out a happy birthday wish on the surface— three young girls, all varying ages, and all with some resemblance to each other, rushing around and investigating while that man, Bucky, stands by and watches with a smile on his face— fireworks sounding outside while he and Bucky curl up on the couch, sharing a peaceful moment they so rarely have if they’re not at home. He can see all of them, for brief flashes, one memory after another after another.

When he wakes up, gasping for air and looking around frantically, Steve doesn’t feel like the soldier. He doesn’t see a threat, he doesn’t reach for his gun.

Instead, he sees their home, the home he had with— with the man he loved?

He doesn’t understand, he just— can’t understand, not yet.

—

Fury sent them a tip not even a 24 hours ago and Bucky’s already about to bust his way into a potential Hydra hideout, hoping to god there’s some sort of tip here. Because he’s not sure he can go through another raid like this without finding some sign of Steve, of where he’s been, of where he might be now.

They've checked the perimeter, though, and everything looks— as fine as it can, at a Hydra location. So they proceed, Bucky breaking the lock on the door with the shield and Sam taking point, clearing the room so Bucky can move forward, heading down a set of stairs and into a dank, miserable corridor, and he can already feel a strange sinking feeling in his gut.

Moving forward as quietly as they can, Bucky’s gut doesn’t feel any better when they reach an area with better lighting— a cell, basically, a large area barred off to keep something in, from what Bucky can tell.

“Damn—“

Sam just about says it all, thankfully, because Bucky feels sick to his stomach as they head deeper into the sectioned off area. Dead screens surround a chair of sorts, one with restraints, surrounded by equipment for things Bucky doesn’t want to imagine and knows way too much about, thanks to that file.

Equipment to rewrite Steve’s mind, to keep him docile, obedient. To forge the Winter Soldier.

“Bucky, over here—“

Sam’s voice breaks Bucky out of his pained daze, drawing his attention over to another set of screens in the corner that aren’t quite dead yet. They must be running off the power that’s keeping the lights running, because when Bucky taps at the keyboard it springs to life, coming up with a series of dated files that look like videos.

“Oh, man— Bucky, don’t, there’s nothing here—“

Shaking his head, Bucky leans a hand against the console, clicking on the first video file, already dreading what he’s about to see. He doesn’t blame Sam when he steps away— if it was anyone else, if it wasn’t Steve, Bucky wouldn’t even consider it, but— he needs to know what they did to him, he has to—

The video plays, a group of scientists moving around in the background while a leading scientist speaks, explaining the procedure that’s about to take place, and Bucky can feel the blood draining from his face as it begins, equipment moving into place around Steve’s head, and there’s a faint hum of electric currents before it starts and all noise is dulled by Steve’s screams.

And all the while, listening to Steve in what sounds like agony, all Bucky can think of how could you leave him there. How could you, Barnes.

Pushing himself away from the console, Bucky makes a sort of gesture for Sam to follow him as he rushes back towards the stairs, desperate for some fresh air, to find something to do, somewhere to go that can get him away from the sound of Steve’s screams.

—

Steve’s not sure why, not sure how, not even sure when he learned this, but— he’s started drawing what he’s seeing, in his dreams. Trying to make sense of what’s real and what’s not, what’s— his and what’s not.

The more he tries to sleep, the more he sees. And sometimes it’s Steve— sometimes it’s not, and that still terrifies him. But Steve’s worn down, his shoulder’s still bruised, his head’s still a mess, and while he’s alone— he needs to sleep.

Now, he’s seeing the war he fought, the team he fought with. Men he trusted with his life— men who trusted him with his lives. He’s seeing a shield— that shield, the one Bucky’d fought him with— in his own hands, strong and secure and practically an extension of himself through that whole war.

Most of all, he sees Bucky, striding into every fight by his side. Taking shots from a sniper’s nest, keeping Steve safe even when Steve couldn’t see him. Helping him with plans, tactics, reigning Steve in when he was getting too reckless with his ideas.

The only memories Steve has without Bucky, they’re all— all in a training camp. One he doesn’t remember much about, no matter how hard he tries.

He remembers the name, though. Camp Lehigh.

Maybe there, he can find some answers.

—

Bucky doesn’t know what leads him back here.

He’d dug a little, out of curiosity more than anything, to find out what happened to their old apartment. He’d been expecting the whole building to be demolished, torn down to build something new, but— it’s mostly just abandoned, left alone, empty.

It’s insane, making his way up the creaking stairs to their old apartment, and— Bucky knows he’s wasting time, he knows he should be chasing more leads, looking for Steve. But this just— feels right. It feels like there could be something here.

More than anything, it feels like a little piece of home, and Bucky could really use that right now.

The door’s unlocked, and it creaks open just like it always did, and it’s— abandoned, it has been for a while, but whoever lived here last obviously didn’t have a chance to take much with them. Some of the furniture’s still here, but Bucky barely notices, because— it still feels like theirs. No matter how small it is, how old and creaky it’s become, it’s still their, and Bucky can’t help but smile at the sight of it.

So much he knew from before is gone now, torn down or abandoned, but this— their home is still here.

It doesn’t take Bucky long to look around, but he’s glad that he did. Every room holds memories for him, and it’s— it’s nice, to have that reminder, to step back into a world where things weren’t like this. Where he and Steve knew they loved each other, where they had each other, whether they could show it to the world or not.

He wasn’t expecting Steve to be there— hell, Bucky’s not even sure he’s in New York, but… if anything, he’s glad he came back at least once.

And it’s only when he’s about to leave, a smile still on his face, when Bucky notices the crumpled piece of paper under the rickety table in the corner. And maybe it’s just old rubbish, maybe it’s been there for years, but curiosity gets the better of him and Bucky hurries over to fish it out.

The moment he touches it he can tell it’s not that old— it’s crisp and far too clean to have been here for any longer than a couple of days, but— it can’t be, there’s no way—

Opening the sheet of paper carefully, Bucky’s heart almost stops dead because he recognises that drawing style. He’d seen it enough time he could pick it out from a mile away, really. And maybe it’s a little shaky, a little rough around the edges, but— it’s Steve’s. Bucky just— knows it. He’d seen enough of Steve’s drawings when they were younger to know this is his.

More than that, it’s something that’s familiar. More to Steve than to Bucky, but it hadn’t been that long since he last saw the sign for Camp Lehigh.

It’s all burnt rubble now, though, and Bucky can’t help but wonder why Steve’d been drawn this. What would’ve made him remember that place, of all the things locked away in his mind. And it’s a long shot, Bucky knows it, but before he can stop himself he’s out the door with the drawing in one hand and his phone in the other, already calling up Sam so they can gear up and head out to what’s left of Steve’s old training camp.

—

None of this is helping. None of this is familiar, not to Steve.

Everything that should be Camp Lehigh is gone, the whole place demolished. There’s nothing left but heaps of rubble, and none of it is helping.

Because now, all he can do is doubt everything he thought he was just starting to remember about this place. All the time he spent training, learning, struggling to be good enough and only barely quite making it, as far as everyone around him was concerned.

Except one man— older, balding, with a kind smile and glasses. For some reason, Steve can’t quite recall his name, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s important. He has to be.

Everything he thought he remembered, though— it’s not here, and as much as he can see the signs of recent destruction, it’s not helping. If anything, the conflict between what he sees and what’s in his head is making it worse, making it all the more difficult to try and put the pieces together, especially when there’s so many.

The more he moves through the camp, the harder it’s becoming, every structure and training area and even the damn flagpole ruined, and Steve can’t keep his hand from shaking because this— this is too much.

Barely keeping himself from tearing it, Steve tugs the folded piece of paper out of his pocket, tugging it open and staring at the recreation he’d sketched in the apartment; everything he thought he could remember from the camp, everything he’d thought was real, but— but it’s not here. He should be standing right where their quarters were, when he was here, but it’s all melted and destroyed and gone.

He’s about to give up, disappear again and try to find somewhere else to hole up until he can figure out what else might be true when he sees something he does recognise.

Bucky walking towards him, shield in hand.

Memories start flashing in his mind, but— not as badly as the last time Steve saw him, no where near as unbearable. Rather than seeing an enemy, Steve can see— flashes, moments of a life they might have had together. A life Steve’s still not sure is his, nor that he ever deserved it if it was.

“…Bucky?”

It’s not a statement— it’s a question, because Steve’s still not sure his memories aren’t betraying him. But the man smiles, just a little, taking another step towards Steve. And with that step, Steve remembers everything else, everything he did to this man when he didn’t remember, the shots fired, the knife he’d driven into Bucky’s shoulder, the grunts of pain when Steve had hit him again and again and again.

He takes a step back, and Bucky stops, his smile faltering.

“Steve— Steve, it’s me.”

Bucky’s voice sounds clear, calm, and— that doesn’t help, not when Steve can see him dropping in pain when Steve had shot him in the goddamn stomach.

How could he—

“I— I know, I think— Just— Wait—“

Steve raises a hand, looking anywhere he can but directly at Bucky just because he can’t stand seeing it again, playing over in his head again and again and he did that and there’s still some damn voice in his head that tells him Bucky’s the enemy, that he did his duty in shooting him, in doing his best to take him down the way he did. That he should take the concealed handgun he keeps with him and do it all again.

But he can’t— he can’t, because he doesn’t just see the red-white-and-blue threat anymore. He sees Bucky, younger, perched on the roof of a building with him watching fireworks; he sees Bucky patching up Steve’s split lip and telling him to be more careful; he sees Bucky holding him close on a cold winter night and keeping him warm. He sees Bucky marching into battles with him without a fear in the world, he sees Bucky settling in camp as best as they can and cracking jokes to keep Steve laughing, he sees so much he can’t believe he forgot for such a long time.

He suddenly sees everything he can’t believe was once his, and he can’t— he won’t destroy that. Not again.

“How— how did you find me?”

It’s hard to talk after so long— Steve has only ever spoken when spoken to, for such a long time. Having the chance to say what he wants, to say he knows, finally, it’s— something he’s not sure he knows how to do.

But he has to know. He needs to know so much.

“You were— at our old apartment, right? I found a sketch, under the table—“

Steve swept that apartment three times, he’s not sure how he missed that, but— he’s glad he did. He’s glad Bucky’s here.

He’s glad that maybe, just maybe, he’s not alone. Even if he deserves to be.

“I didn’t know— what to do.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to— to bother you, I thought— you’ve got— a team? Right? And— a life, I shouldn’t—“

“No— that’s you, Steve. You’re my life.”

Bucky takes a step closer, careful, keeping his movement slow and steady, and— it helps, that he’s taking so much care, just for Steve. No one has in what feels like a lifetime.

“I’m still not— me, I’m not— My arm— I don’t know—“

“That’s okay, Steve.”

“But—“

He takes another step and he’s close enough for Steve to touch if he wants— he doesn’t, though, he can’t, not when he knows how much blood is on his hands, and not when he’s got an arm that’s not the one Bucky remembers.

Bucky seems to have other plans, though, reaching to set his hands on Steve’s shoulders carefully, and it’s the contact that finally breaks through to him. Not just the physical touch, but how gentle Bucky is, how hard he’s trying to keep Steve stable, how much care there is there when Steve meets his eyes, and it’s all so much more than he’s had for such a long time.

“B-Bucky—“

“It’s me, Steve— I’m right here, okay?”

And that’s it, that’s all Steve can fight against before he just crumbles like the sagging walls around them and Bucky just manages to catch him in time, his arms wrapping around him while Steve all but collapses against Bucky’s chest, holding onto him like he hasn’t held onto anything since he fell from that train lifetimes ago.

Because, for the first time in way, way too long, Steve’s not alone. He’s not trapped in his own head, or in world he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t have to answer to orders, he doesn’t have to take out a target or orchestrate a hit. He doesn’t have to do anything but be right here. In the midst of all this destruction, in what used to be the place where all of this started for him.

He can finally be himself. And he might not know who that is just yet, but— Bucky does. And Steve knows he doesn’t deserve it, he knows that better than he knows anything. He doesn’t deserve this kindness or this care, he doesn’t deserve the gentle hushing sounds Bucky’s making, the way he’s rubbing Steve’s back so gently and doing his best to calm him down.

But Bucky’s here, and he’s doing it all anyway. And that’s enough. If there’s only one thing Steve knows for sure, it’s that Bucky’s always going to be enough.


End file.
